TT 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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DATE 
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DUE 


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Form  No    513 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2011  witli  funding  from 

University  of  Nortli  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/unknownmasterpieOObalz 


THE  TEMPLE  EDITION 

OF   THE 

COMÉDIE    HUMAINE 

Edited  by 
GEORGE    SAINTSBURY 


THE'UNKNOWN 
MASTERPIECE 

(LE'CHEF-D'ŒUVRE'INCONNU) 

OTHER^STORIES 

H^DE'^BALZAC 


*  ELLEN  MARRIAGE  ' 

Wiih'a'Frontispiece 
etched  vby 

Wj^BOUCHER 


*  ig  oi  ' 
THE^^MACMIli-'AN 
,^     *  COMPANY - 

06  FIFTH  /7-N  V  ^->^  AVENUE 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE  

THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE— 
I.    GILLETTE       . 
II.    CATHERINE    LESCAULT 

CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS  . 
MELMOTH  RECONCILED 
THE  MARANAS      . 
EL  VERDUGO 
FAREWELL    . 
THE  CONSCRIPT      . 
A  SEASIDE  TRAGEDY 
THE  RED  HOUSE   . 

I.    THE    IDEA    AND    THE    DEED 
II.    A    DOUBLE    RETRIBUTION 


THE  ELIXIR  OF  LIFE 
O 


X 
22 

33 

54 
no 

184 

197 
248 

267 
291 

295 

320 
334 


PREFACE 

The  volume  of  short  stories  which,  in  the  first  complete 
edition  of  the  Comédie^  opens  with  Les  Marana^  contains, 
with  that  in  which  La  Recherche  de  t Absolu  leads  off, 
the  very  finest  productions  of  the  author  on  a  small 
scale  ;  and  they  now  appear  together,  La  Recherche  ex- 
cepted. Almost  all  the  pieces  herein  contained  were 
early  work,  written  when  Balzac  was  under  the  com- 
bined excitement  of  his  emergence  from  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  in  which  he  had  toiled  so  long,  and  of  the  heat 
and  stress  of  the  political  and  literary  Revolution  of  1830. 
All  of  them  show  his  very  freshest  matured  power,  not 
as  yet  in  the  slightest  degree  sicklied  o'er  by  any  exces- 
sive attempt  to  codify  or  systematise.  It  is  true  that 
they  are  called  Etudes  Philosophiques^  and  that  it 
puzzles  the  adroitest  advocate  to  make  out  any  very 
particular  claim  that  they  have  to  the  title.  But  '  philo- 
sophy,' a  term  pretty  freely  abused  in  all  languages,  had 
in  French  been  treated  during  the  eighteenth  century 
and  earlier  as  a  sort  of  *  blessed  word,'  which  might  mean 
anything,  from  the  misbeliefs  and  disbeliefs  of  those  who 
did  not  believe  in  the  devil  to  the  pursuits  of  those  who 
meddled  with  test-tubes  and  retorts.  Balzac  seems  gener- 
ally to  have  meant  by  it  something  that  was  not  mere 
surface-literature — that    was    intended     to     make    the 


X  Preface 

reader  think  and  feel.  In  this  sense  very  little  of  his 
own  work  is  unworthy  of  the  title,  and  we  certainly 
need  not  refuse  it  to  Les  Marana  and  its  companions. 

The  only  objection  that  I  can  think  of  to  the  title- 
tale  is  a  kind  of  uncertainty  in  the  plan  of  the  character 
of  Juana.  It  is  perfectly  proper  that  she  should  fall  an 
unsophisticated  victim  to  the  inherited  tendencies  (let  it 
be  remembered  that  Balzac  worked  this  vein  with  dis- 
cretion long  before  it  was  tediously  overworked  by 
literary  Darwinians),  to  her  own  genuine  affection,  and 
to  the  wiles  of  Montefiore.  It  is  quite  right,  as  well  as 
satisfactory,  that  she  should  refuse  her  seducer  when  she 
discovers  the  baseness  of  his  motives.  It  is  natural 
enough,  especially  in  a  southern  damsel,  that  she  should 
submit  to  the  convenient  cloak  of  marriage  with  Diard, 
and  even  make  him  a  good  and  affectionate  wife  after- 
wards. But  Balzac  seems  to  me — perhaps  I  am  wrong 
— to  have  left  us  in  undue  doubt  whether  she  killed 
Diard  purely  out  of  Castilian  honour,  or  partly  as  a  sort 
of  revenge  for  the  sufferings  she  had  undergone  in  endur- 
ing his  love.  A  mixture  of  the  two  would  be  the  finer 
and  the  truer  touch,  and  therefore  it  is  probable  that 
Balzac  meant  it  ;  but  I  think  he  should  have  indicated 
it,  not  by  any  clumsy  labelling  or  explanation,  but  by 
something  *  leading  up.'  It  may,  however,  seem  that 
this  is  a  hypercriticism,  and  certainly  the  tale  is  fine 
enough. 

The  fantastic  horror  of  Adieu  may  seem  even  finer  to 
some,  but  a  trifle  overwrought  to  others.  Balzac,  who 
had  very  little  literary  jealousy  in  his  own  way  and 
school,  made  a  confession  of  enthusiastic  regret  after- 
wards that  he,  Balzac,  could  not  attain  to  the  perfection 


Preface 


XI 


of  description  of  the  Russian  retreat  which  Beyle  had 
achieved.  Both  were  observer-idealists,  and  required 
some  touch  of  actual  experience  to  set  their  imaginations 
working,  an  advantage  which,  in  this  case,  Balzac  did 
not  possess,  and  Beyle  did.  But  I  do  not  think  that 
any  one  can  reasonably  find  fault  with  the  scenes  on  the 
Beresina  here.  The  induction  (to  use  Sackville's  good 
old  word)  of  the  story  is  excellent  :  and  there  is  no  part 
of  a  short  story,  hardly  even  the  end,  which  is  so  im- 
portant as  the  beginning  ;  for  if  it  fails  to  lay  a  grip  on 
the  reader,  it  is  two  to  one  that  he  will  not  go  on  with 
it.  The  character  of  Philippe  de  Sucy  is  finely  touched, 
and  the  contrast  of  the  unconscious  selfishness  of  his 
love  with  the  uncle's  affection  is  excellent,  and  not  in  the 
least  (as  it  might  be)  obtrusive.  But  the  point  of  danger, 
of  course,  is  in  the  representation  of  the  pure  animalised 
condition  of  the  unhappy  Countess,  and  her  monkey-like 
tricks.  It  is  never  quite  certain  that  a  thing  of  this  kind 
will  not  strike  the  reader,  in  some  variable  mood,  with  a 
sense  of  the  disgusting,  of  the  childish,  of  the  merely 
fantastic,  and  any  such  sense  in  a  tale  appealing  so  strongly 
to  the  sense  of  '  the  pity  of  it  '  is  fatal.  I  can  only  say 
that  I  have  read  Adieu  at  long  intervals  of  time  and  in 
very  different  circumstances,  and  have  not  felt  anything 
of  the  kind,  or  anything  but  the  due  pity  and  terror. 
The  style,  perhaps,  is  not  entirely  Balzac's  own  j  the 
interest  is  a  Httle  simple  and  elementary  for  him  ;  but 
he  shows  that  he  can  handle  it  as  well  as  things  more 
complicated  and  subtler. 

Le  Réquîsitionnaire^  El  Verdugo^  and  Un  Drame  au  bord 
de  la  Mer  may  be  called,  assuredly  in  no  uncomplimentary 
or  slighting  sense,  anecdotes  rather  than  stories.     The 


XII 


Preface 


hinge,  the  centre,  the  climax,  or  the  catastrophe  (as 
from  different  points  of  view  we  may  call  it),  is  in  all 
cases  more  important  than  the  details  and  the  thread  of 
narrative.  They  are  all  good,  but  El  Verdugo  is  far  the 
best  :  the  great  incident  of  the  father  blessing  his  son 
and  executioner  in  the  words  *  Marquis  [his  own  title] 
frappe  sans  peur,  tu  es  sans  reproche,'  being  worthy  of 
Hugo  himself. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  admire  V Auberge  Rouge  quite  so 
much  as  some  of  the  other  contents  of  the  volume.  It 
has  interest  j  and  it  may  be  observed  that,  as  indicating 
the  origin  of  Tailiefer's  wealth,  it  connects  itself  with 
the  general  scheme  of  the  Comédie^  as  few  of  the  others 
do.  But  it  is  an  attempt,  hke  one  or  two  others  of 
Balzac's,  at  a  style  very  popular  in  1830,  a  sort  of 
combination  of  humour  and  terror,  of  Sterne  and  Monk 
Lewis,  which  is  a  little  doubtful  in  itself,  which  has  very 
rarely  been  done  well,  and  for  which  he  himself  was  not 
quite  completely  equipped.  UElixir  de  longue  Vie^  in 
which  Balzac  acknowledges  (I  do  not  know  whether  by 
trick  or  not)  indebtedness  to  Hoffmann  or  somebody 
else,  is  also  'style  1830,'  and,  to  speak  with  perfect 
frankness,  would  have  been  done  much  better  by  Mérimée 
or  Gautier  than  by  Balzac.  But  it  is  done  well.  Maître 
Cornélius^  which,  by  the  way,  is  interesting  in  its  dedica- 
tion to  Count  Georges  Mniszech,  partakes  of  the  char- 
acter of  a  '  Conte  drolatique  '  thrown  out  of  the  scheme 
of  those  Contes.  But  it  very  worthily  completes  in  its 
own  way  one  of  the  most  remarkable  volumes  of  the 
old  collection. 

The  tales  now  added  take  equal  rank.  The  Chef- 
d''œuvre  inconnu^  a  masterpiece  in  two  senses,  has  been 


Preface  xiii 

noticed  in  connection  with  La  Recherche.  fesus-Christ 
en  Flandre  is  good,  and  Melmoth  réconcilié,  inferior  in 
itself,  has  a  special  and  adventitious  interest.  Maturin, 
whose  most  famous  book  (quite  recently  reprinted  after 
long  forgetfulness,  but  one  of  European  interest  in  its 
time,  and  of  special  influence  on  Balzac)  can  hardly  be 
said  to  receive  here  a  continuation  which  is  exactly  en 
suite,  and  the  odd  thing  is  that  nothing  was  further  from 
Balzac's  mind  than  to  parody  his  original.  The  thing, 
therefore,  is  a  curious  example  of  the  difference  of  point 
of  view,  of  the  way  in  which  an  English  conception 
travesties  itself  when  it  gets  into  French  hands.  Maturin 
was  an  infinitely  smaller  man  than  Shakespeare,  and 
Balzac  was  an  infinitely  greater  man  than  Ducis  ;  but 
*  equals  aquals,'  as  they  say,  or  used  to  say,  in  Maturin's 
country,  I  do  not  know  that  Maturin  fared  much  better 
at  the  hands  of  Balzac  than  Shakespeare  has  fared  at 
the  hands  of  Ducis  and  a  long  succession  of  adapters 
down  to  the  present  day  in  France. 

All  the  Marana  group  of  stories  appeared  together  in 
the  fourth  edition  of  the  Etudes  'Philosophiques,  1835- 
1837,  and  have  not  since  been  separated,  with  one 
exception  (see  below),  either  before  or  after  their  entry 
into  the  Comédie.  Most  of  them,  however,  had  earlier 
appearances  in  periodicals  and  in  the  Romans  et  Contes 
Philosophiques,  which  preceded  the  Etudes.  And  in  these 
various  appearances  they  were  subjected  to  their  author's 
usual  processes  of  division  and  unification,  of  sub-titling 
and  cancelling  sub-titles.  JLes  Marana  appeared  first  in 
the  Revue  de  Paris  for  the  last  month  of  1832  and  the 
first  of  1833  ;  while  it  next  made  a  show,  oddly  enough, 
as  a   Scene  de  la   vie   Parisienne.     Adieu  appeared  in 


xiv  Preface 

the  Mode  during  June  1830,  and  was  afterwards  for  a 
time  a  Scene  de  la  vie  privée.  Le  Réquisitionnaire 
was  issued  by  the  Revue  de  Paris  of  February  23, 
1831  ;  El  Verdugo  by  the  Mode  for  January  29,  1830  ; 
V Auberge  Rouge  in  the  Revue  de  Paris,  August  1831  j 
UElixir  de  longue  Vie,  by  the  same  periodical  for 
October  1830  ;  Maître  Cornélius,  again  by  the  same  for 
December  1831.  Un  Drame  au  bord  de  la  Mer  alone 
appeared  nowhere  except  in  book  form  with  its  com- 
panions; but  in  1843  '^  ^^^'  them  for  a  time  (afterwards 
to  return),  and  as  La  "Justice  Paternelle  accompanied  La 
Muse  du  Département,  Albert  Savarus,  and  Facino  Cane 
in  a  separate  publication. 

Of  those  here  added,  Jésus-Christ  en  Flandre  was  one 
of  the  Ro?nans  et  Contes  Philosophiques,  which  Gosselin 
published  in  1831,  and  remained  as  such  till  the  con- 
stitution of  the  Comédie,  It  is  a  sort  of  Aaron's  rod 
among  Balzac's  stories,  and  swallowed  up  a  minor  one 
called  U Eglise.  Melmoth  réconcilié,  dating  from  1835, 
first  appeared  in  a  miscellany.  Le  Livre  des  Contes  ;  then 
it  was  an  Etude  Philosophique  ;  and  in  1845  it  received  its 
class  in  the  Comédie.  Le  Chef-d'œuvre  inconnu  appeared  in 
the  Artiste  of  1831,  before  its  present  date,  as  a  *  Conte 
fantastique,'  in  two  parts.  It  almost  immediately  became 
one  of  the  Romans  et  Contes  Philosophiques,  passed  in 
1837  to  the  Études  Philosophiques,  was  most  unequally 
yoked  for  a  time  with  Les  Comédiens  sans  le  savoir,  and 
took  definite  rank  in  1845  as  usual. 

G.S. 


Note, — Maître  Cornelius  has  been  omitted,  and   post- 
poned to  a  future  volume,  owing  to  exigencies  of  space 


THE   UNKNOWN    MASTERPIECE 

To  a  Lord 


1845 
L   GILLETTE 

On  a  cold  December  morning  in  the  year  161 2,  a  young 
man,  whose  clothing  was  somewhat  of  the  thinnest,  was 
walking  to  and  fro  before  a  gateway  in  the  Rue  des 
Grands-Augustins  in  Paris.  He  went  up  and  down  the 
street  before  this  house  with  the  irresolution  of  a  gallant 
who  dares  not  venture  into  the  presence  of  the  mistress 
whom  he  loves  for  the  first  time,  easy  of  access  though 
she  may  be  ;  but  after  a  sufficiently  long  interval  of  hesita- 
tion, he  at  last  crossed  the  threshold  and  inquired  of  an 
old  woman,  who  was  sweeping  out  a  large  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  whether  Master  Porbus  was  within.  Re- 
ceiving a  reply  in  the  affirmative,  the  young  man  went 
slowly  up  the  staircase,  like  a  gentleman  but  newly  come 
to  court,  and  doubtful  as  to  his  reception  by  the  king. 
He  came  to  a  stand  once  more  on  the  landing  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  again  he  hesitated  before  raising 
his  hand  to  the  grotesque  knocker  on  the  door  of  the 
studio,  where  doubtless  the  painter  was  at  work — Master 
Porbus,  sometime  painter  in  ordinary  to  Henri  iv.  till 
Mary  de'  Medici  took  Rubens  into  favour. 

The  young  man  felt  deeply  stirred  by  an  emotion  that 
must  thrill  the  hearts  of  all  great  artists  when,  in  the 

A 


2  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

pride  of  their  youth  and  their  first  love  of  art,  they  come 
into  the  presence  of  a  master  or  stand  before  a  master- 
piece. For  all  human  sentiments  there  is  a  time  of 
early  blossoming,  a  day  of  generous  enthusiasm  that 
gradually  fades  until  nothing  is  left  of  happiness  but  a 
memory,  and  glory  is  known  for  a  delusion.  Of  all 
these  delicate  and  short-lived  emotions,  none  so  resemble 
love  as  the  passion  of  a  young  artist  for  his  art,  as  he  is 
about  to  enter  on  the  blissful  martyrdom  of  his  career 
of  glory  and  disaster,  of  vague  expectations  and  real 
disappointments. 

Those  v/ho  have  missed  this  experience  in  the  early 
days  of  light  purses  ;  who  have  not,  in  the  dawn  of  their 
genius,  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  master  and  felt  the 
throbbing  of  their  hearts,  will  always  carry  in  their  in- 
most souls  a  chord  that  has  never  been  touched,  and  in 
their  work  an  indefinable  quality  will  be  lacking,  a  some- 
thing in  the  stroke  of  the  brush,  a  mysterious  element 
that  we  call  poetry.  The  swaggerers,  so  puffed  up  by  self- 
conceit  that  they  are  confident  oversoon  of  their  success, 
can  never  be  taken  for  men  of  talent  save  by  fools. 
From  this  point  of  view,  if  youthful  modesty  is  the  measure 
of  youthful  genius,  the  stranger  on  the  staircase  might 
be  allowed  to  have  something  in  him  ;  for  he  seemed  to 
possess  the  indescribable  diffidence,  the  early  timidity 
that  artists  are  bound  to  lose  in  the  course  of  a  great 
career,  even  as  pretty  women  lose  it  as  they  make 
progress  in  the  arts  of  coquetry.  Self-distrust  vanishes 
as  triumph  succeeds  to  triumph,  and  modesty  is,  perhaps, 
distrust  of  self. 

The  poor  neophyte  was  so  overcome  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  presumption  and  insignificance,  that  it 
began  to  look  as  if  he  was  hardly  likely  to  penetrate  into 
the  studio  of  the  painter,  to  whom  we  owe  the  wonder- 
ful portrait  of  Henri  iv.  But  fate  was  propitious;  an 
old  man  came  up  the  staircase.  From  the  quaint 
costume  of  this  new-comer,  his  collar  of  magnificent  lace, 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  3 

and  a  certain  serene  gravity  in  his  bearing,  the  first 
arrival  thought  that  this  personage  must  be  either  a 
patron  or  a  friend  of  the  court  painter.  He  stood  aside 
therefore  upon  the  landing  to  allow  the  visitor  to  pass, 
scrutinising  him  curiously  the  while.  Perhaps  he  might 
hope  to  find  the  good  nature  of  an  artist  or  to  receive 
the  good  offices  of  an  amateur  not  unfriendly  to  the 
arts  ;  but  besides  an  almost  diabolical  expression  in  the 
face  that  met  his  gaze,  there  was  that  indescribable  some- 
thing which  has  an  irresistible  attraction  for  artists. 

Picture  that  face.  A  bald  high  forehead  and  rugged 
jutting  brows  above  a  small  flat  nose  turned  up  at  the 
end,  as  in  the  portraits  of  Socrates  and  Rabelais,  deep 
lines  about  the  mocking  mouth  ;  a  short  chin,  carried 
proudly,  covered  with  a  grizzled  pointed  beard  ;  sea-green 
eyes  that  age  might  seem  to  have  dimmed  were  it  not 
for  the  contrast  between  the  iris  and  the  surrounding 
mother-of-pearl  tints,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  under  the 
stress  of  anger  or  enthusiasm  there  would  be  a  magnetic 
power  to  quell  or  kindle  in  their  glances.  The  face 
was  withered  beyond  wont  by  the  fatigue  of  years, 
yet  it  seemed  aged  still  more  by  the  thoughts  that  had 
worn  away  both  soul  and  body.  There  were  no  lashes 
to  the  deep-set  eyes,  and  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  arching 
lines  of  the  eyebrows  above  them.  Set  this  head  on  a 
spare  and  feeble  frame,  place  it  in  a  frame  of  lace 
wrought  Hke  an  engraved  silver  fish-slice,  imagine  a 
heavy  gold  chain  over  the  old  man's  black  doublet,  and 
you  will  have  some  dim  idea  of  this  strange  personage, 
who  seemed  still  more  fantastic  in  the  sombre  twilight 
of  the  staircase.  One  of  Rembrandt's  portraits  might 
have  stepped  down  from  its  frame  to  walk  in  an  appro- 
priate atmosphere  of  gloom,  such  as  the  great  painter 
loved.  The  older  man  gave  the  younger  a  shrewd 
glance,  and  knocked  thrice  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  a  man  of  forty  or  thereabouts,  who  seemed  to  be  an 
invalid. 


4  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

*  Good-day,  Master.' 

Porbus  bowed  respectfully,  and  held  the  door  open  for 
the  younger  man  to  enter,  thinking  that  the  latter 
accompanied  his  visitor  ;  and  when  he  saw  that  the 
neophyte  stood  awhile  as  if  spellbound,  feeling,  as  every 
artist-nature  must  feel,  the  fascinating  influence  of  the 
first  sight  of  a  studio  in  which  the  material  processes  of 
art  are  revealed,  Porbus  troubled  himself  no  more  about 
this  second  comer. 

All  the  light  in  the  studio  came  from  a  window  in  the 
roof,  and  was  concentrated  upon  an  easel,  where  a  canvas 
stood  untouched  as  yet  save  for  three  or  four  outlines  in 
chalk.  The  daylight  scarcely  reached  the  remoter 
angles  and  corners  of  the  vast  room  ;  they  were  as  dark 
as  night,  but  the  silver  ornamented  breastplate  of  a 
Reiter's  corselet,  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  attracted  a  stray 
gleam  to  its  dim  abiding-place  among  the  brown  shadows  ; 
or  a  shaft  of  light  shot  across  the  carved  and  glistening 
surface  of  an  antique  sideboard  covered  with  curious 
silver-plate,  or  struck  out  a  line  of  glittering  dots  among 
the  raised  threads  of  the  golden  warp  of  some  old 
brocaded  curtains,  where  the  lines  of  the  stiff  heavy  folds 
were  broken,  as  the  stufF  had  been  flung  carelessly  down 
to  serve  as  a  model. 

Plaster  ècorchés  stood  about  the  room  ;  and  here  and 
there,  on  shelves  and  tables,  lay  fragments  of  classical 
sculpture  —  torsos  of  antique  goddesses,  worn  smooth 
as  though  all  the  years  of  the  centuries  that  had  passed 
over  them  had  been  lovers'  kisses.  The  walls  were 
covered,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  with  countless  sketches 
in  charcoal,  red  chalk,  or  pen  and  ink.  Amid  the  litter 
and  confusion  of  colour  boxes,  overturned  stools,  flasks 
of  oil,  and  essences,  there  was  just  room  to  move  so  as  to 
reach  the  illuminated  circular  space  where  the  easel  stood. 
The  light  from  the  window  in  the  roof  fell  full  upon 
Porbus's  pale  face  and  on  the  ivory-tinted  forehead  of 
his  strange  visitor.     But  in  another  moment  the  younger 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  5 

man  heeded  nothing  but  a  picture  that  had  akeady 
become  famous  even  in  those  stormy  days  of  poHtical 
and  rehgious  revolution,  a  picture  that  a  few  of  the 
zealous  worshippers,  who  have  so  often  kept  the  sacred 
fire  of  art  alive  in  evil  days,  were  wont  to  go  on 
pilgrimage  to  see.  The  beautiful  panel  represented  a 
Saint  Mary  of  Egypt  about  to  pay  her  passage  across 
the  seas.  It  was  a  masterpiece  destined  for  Mary  de' 
Medici,  who  sold  it  in  later  years  of  poverty. 

'  I  like  your  saint,'  the  old  man  remarked,  addressing 
Porbus.  *  I  would  give  you  ten  golden  crowns  for  her 
over  and  above  the  price  the  Queen  is  paying  ;  but  as  for 
putting  a  spoke  in  that  wheel  .  .  .  the  devil  take  it  !  ' 

*  It  is  good  then  ?  ' 

'  Hey  !  hey  !  '  said  the  old  man  ;  *  good,  say  you  ? — 
Yes  and  no.  Your  good  woman  is  not  badly  done,  but 
she  is  not  alive.  You  artists  fancy  that  when  a  figure  is 
correctly  drawn,  and  everything  in  its  place  according  to 
the  rules  of  anatomy,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done. 
You  make  up  the  flesh  tints  beforehand  on  your  palettes 
according  to  your  formulae,  and  fill  in  the  outlines  with 
due  care  that  one  side  of  the  face  shall  be  darker  than 
the  other  ;  and  because  you  look  from  time  to  time  at 
a  naked  woman  who  stands  on  the  platform  before  you, 
you  fondly  imagine  that  you  have  copied  nature,  think 
yourselves  to  be  painters,  believe  that  you  have  wrested 
His  secret  from  God.  Pshaw  !  You  may  know  your 
syntax  thoroughly  and  make  no  blunders  in  your  gram- 
mar, but  it  takes  that  and  something  more  to  make  a 
great  poet.  Look  at  your  saint,  Porbus  !  At  a  first 
glance  she  is  admirable  j  look  at  her  again,  and  you  see 
at  once  that  she  is  glued  to  the  background,  and  that 
you  could  not  walk  round  her.  She  is  a  silhouette  that 
turns  but  one  side  of  her  face  to  all  beholders,  a  figure 
cut  out  of  canvas,  an  image  with  no  power  to  move  nor 
change  her  position.  I  feel  as  if  there  were  no  air 
between   that  arm  and    the   background,  no  space,  no 


6  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

sense  of  distance  in  your  canvas.  The  perspective  is 
perfectly  correct,  the  strength  of  the  colouring  is 
accurately  diminished  with  the  distance  ;  but,  in  spite  of 
these  praiseworthy  efforts,  I  could  never  bring  myself  to 
believe  that  the  warm  breath  of  life  comes  and  goes  in 
that  beautiful  body.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  laid  my 
hand  on  the  firm  rounded  throat,  it  would  be  cold  as 
marble  to  the  touch.  No,  my  friend,  the  blood  does  not 
flow  beneath  that  ivory  skin,  the  tide  of  life  does  not 
flush  those  delicate  fibres,  the  purple  veins  that  trace  a 
network  beneath  the  transparent  amber  of  her  brow  and 
breast.  Here  the  pulse  seems  to  beat,  there  it  is  motion- 
less, life  and  death  are  at  strife  in  every  detail  ;  here  you 
see  a  woman,  there  a  statue,  there  again  a  corpse.  Your 
creation  is  incomplete.  You  had  only  power  to  breathe 
a  portion  of  your  soul  into  your  beloved  work.  The  fire 
of  Prometheus  died  out  again  and  again  in  your  hands; 
many  a  spot  in  your  picture  has  not  been  touched  by  the 
divine  flame.' 

*  But  how  is  it,  dear  master  ?  '  Porbus  asked  respect- 
fully, while  the  young  man  with  difficulty  repressed  his 
strong  desire  to  beat  the  critic. 

'  Ah  !  '  said  the  old  man,  '  it  is  this  !  You  have 
halted  between  two  manners.  You  have  hesitated 
between  drawing  and  colour,  between  the  dogged  atten- 
tion to  detail,  the  stiff  precision  of  the  German  masters 
and  the  dazzlirig  glow,  the  joyous  exuberance  of  Italian 
painters.  You  have  set  yourself  to  imitate  Hans  Holbein 
and  Titian,  Albrecht  Durer  and  Paul  Veronese  in  a  single 
picture.  A  magnificent  ambition  truly,  but  what  has 
come  of  it  ?  Your  work  has  neither  the  severe  charm 
of  a  dry  execution  nor  the  magical  illusion  of  Italian 
chiaroscuro.  Titian's  rich  golden  colouring  poured  into 
Albrecht  Diirer's  austere  outlines  has  shattered  them, 
like  molten  bronze  bursting  through  the  mould  that  is 
not  strong  enough  to  hold  it.  In  other  places  the  out- 
lines  have   held    firm,   imprisoning   and   obscuring   the 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  7 

magnificent  glowing  flood  of  Venetian  colour.  The 
drawing  of  the  face  is  not  perfect,  the  colouring  is  not 
perfect  ;  traces  of  that  unlucky  indecision  are  to  be  seen 
everywhere.  Unless  you  felt  strong  enough  to  fuse  the 
two  opposed  manners  in  the  fire  of  your  own  genius,  you 
should  have  cast  in  your  lot  boldly  with  the  one  or  the 
other,  and  so  have  obtained  the  unity  which  simulates  one 
of  the  conditions  of  life  itself.  Your  work  is  only  true 
in  the  centres  ;  your  outlines  are  false,  they  project  no- 
thing, there  is  no  hint  of  anything  behind  them.  There 
is  truth  here,'  said  the  old  man,  pointing  to  the  breast  of 
the  Saint,  '  and  again  here,'  he  went  on,  indicating  the 
rounded  shoulder.  '  But  there,'  once  more  returning 
to  the  column  of  the  throat,  '  everything  is  false.  Let 
us  go  no  farther  into  detail;  you  would  be  disheartened.' 

The  old  man  sat  down  on  a  stool,  and  remained  a 
while  without  speaking,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

'  Yet  I  studied  that  throat  from  the  life,  dear  master,' 
Porbus  began  ;  '  it  happens  sometimes,  for  our  misfor- 
tune, that  real  effects  in  nature  look  improbable  when 
transferred  to  canvas ' 

'  The  aim  of  art  is  not  to  copy  nature,  but  to  express 
it.  You  are  not  a  servile  copyist,  but  a  poet  !  '  cried  the 
old  man  sharply,  cutting  Porbus  short  with  an  imperious 
gesture.  '  Otherwise  a  sculptor  might  make  a  plaster 
cast  of  a  living  woman  and  save  himself  all  further 
trouble.  Well^  try  to  make  a  cast  of  your  mistress's 
hand,  and  set  up  the  thing  before  you.  You  will  see  a 
monstrosity,  a  dead  mass,  bearing  no  resemblance  to  the 
living  hand  ;  you  would  be  compelled  to  have  recourse 
to  the  chisel  of  a  sculptor  who,  without  making  an  exact 
copy,  would  represent  for  you  its  movement  and  its  life. 
We  must  detect  the  spirit,  the  informing  soul  in  the 
appearances  of  things  and  beings.  Effects  !  What  are 
effects  but  the  accidents  of  life,  not  life  itself?  A  hand, 
since  I  have  taken  that  example,  is  not  only  a  part  of  a 
body,  it  is  the  expression  and  extension  of  a  thought  thai 


8  The  Unknown   Masterpiece 

must  be  grasped  and  rendered.  Neither  painter  nor 
poet  nor  sculptor  may  separate  the  effect  from  the  cause, 
which  are  inevitably  contained  the  one  in  the  other. 
There  begins  the  real  struggle  !  Many  a  painter 
achieves  success  instinctively,  unconscious  of  the  task 
that  is  set  before  art.  You  draw  a  woman,  yet  you  do 
not  see  her!  Not  so  do  you  succeed  in  wresting  nature's 
secrets  from  her  !  You  are  reproducing  mechanically 
the  model  that  you  copied  in  your  master's  studio.  You 
do  not  penetrate  far  enough  into  the  ini?iost  secrets  of 
the  mystery  of  form  ;  you  do  not  seek  w:th  love  enough 
and  perseverance  enough  after  the  form  that  baffles 
and  eludes  you.  Beauty  is  a  thing  severe  and  un- 
approachable, never  to  be  won  by  a  langu'd  lover.  You 
must  lie  in  wait  for  her  coming  and  take  her  unawares, 
press  her  hard  and  clasp  her  in  a  tight  embrace,  and  force 
her  to  yield.  Form  is  a  Proteus  more  intangible  and 
more  manifold  than  the  Proteus  of  the  legend  ;  com- 
pelled, only  after  long  wrestling,  to  stand  forth  manifest 
in  his  true  aspect.  Some  of  you  are  satisied  with  the  first 
shape,  or  at  most  by  the  second  or  the  third  that  appears. 
Not  thus  wrestle  the  victors,  the  unvinquished  painters 
who  never  suffer  themselves  to  be  deluded  by  all  those 
treacherous  shadow-shapes;  they  persevere  till  nature  at 
the  last  stands  bare  to  their  gaze,  end  her  very  soul  is 
revealed. 

*  In  this  manner  worked  Rafael,'  said  the  old  man, 
taking  off  his  cap  to  express  his  reverence  for  the  King 
of  Art.  '  His  transcendent  greatness  came  of  the  inti- 
mate sense  that,  in  him,  seems  as  if  it  would  shatter 
external  form.  Form  in  his  figures  (as  with  us)  is  a 
symbol,  a  means  of  communicating  sensations,  ideas, 
the  vast  imaginings  of  a  poet.  Every  face  is  a  whole 
world.  The  subject  of  the  portrait  appeared  for  him 
bathed  in  the  light  of  a  divine  vision  ;  it  was  revealed  by 
an  inner  voice,  the  finger  of  God  laid  bare  the  sources 
of  expression  in  the  past  of  a  whole  life. 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  9 

*  You  clothe  your  women  in  fair  raiment  of  flesh,  in 
gracious  veiling  of  hair;  but  where  is  the  blood,  the 
source  of  passion  and  of  calm,  the  cause  of  the  particular 
effect  ?  Why,  this  brown  Egyptian  of  yours,  my  good 
Porbus,  is  a  colourless  creature  !  These  figures  that  you 
set  before  us  are  painted  bloodless  phantoms  ;  and  you 
call  that  painting,  you  call  that  art  ! 

*  Because  you  have  made  something  more  like  a  woman 
than  a  house,  you  think  that  you  have  set  your  fingers 
on  the  goal  ;  you  are  quite  proud  that  you  need  not  to 
write  currus  venustus  or  pulcher  homo  beside  your  figures, 
as  early  painters  were  wont  to  do,  and  you  fancy  that  you 
have  done  wonders.  Ah  !  my  good  friend,  there  is  still 
something  more  to  learn,  and  you  will  use  up  a  great 
deal  of  chalk  and  cover  many  a  canvas  before  you  will 
learn  it.  Yes,  truly,  a  woman  carries  her  head  in  just 
such  a  way,  so  she  holds  her  garments  gathered  into  her 
hand  ;  her  eyes  grow  dreamy  and  soft  with  that  expres- 
sion of  meek  sweetness,  and  even  so  the  quivering  shadow 
of  the  lashes  hovers  upon  her  cheeks.  It  is  all  there, 
and  yet  it  is  not  there.  What  is  lacking  ?  A  nothing, 
but  that  nothing  is  everything. 

'  There  you  have  the  semblance  of  life,  but  you  do  not 
express  its  fulness  and  eiBuence,  that  indescribable  some- 
thing, perhaps  the  soul  itself,  that  envelopes  the  outlines 
of  the  body  like  a  haze  ;  that  flower  of  life,  in  short,  that 
Titian  and  Rafael  caught.  Your  utmost  achievement 
hitherto  has  only  brought  you  to  the  starting-point. 
You  might  now  perhaps  begin  to  do  excellent  work,  but 
you  grow  weary  all  too  soon  ;  and  the  crowd  admires, 
and  those  who  know  smile. 

'  Oh,  Mabuse  !  oh,  my  master  !  '  cried  the  strange 
speaker,  *•  thou  art  a  thief!  Thou  hast  carried  away  the 
secret  of  life  with  thee  ! 

'  Nevertheless,'  he  began  again,  '  this  picture  of  yours 
is  worth  more  than  all  the  paintings  of  that  rascal 
Rubens,  with   his  mountains  of  Flemish   flesh   raddled 


lO  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

with  vermilion,  his  torrents  of  red  hair,  his  riot  of  colour. 
You,  at  least,  have  colour  there,  and  feeling  and  drawing 
— the  three  essentials  in  art.' 

The  young  man  roused  himself  from  his  deep  musings. 

'  Why,  my  good  man,  the  Saint  is  sublime  !  '  he  cried. 
*  There  is  a  subtlety  of  imagination  about  those  two 
figures,  the  Saint  Mary  and  the  Shipman,  that  cannot  be 
found  among  Italian  masters  ;  I  do  not  know  a  single 
one  of  them  capable  of  imaging  the  Shipman's  hesitation.' 

'  Did  that  little  malapert  come  with  you  ?  '  asked 
Porbus  of  the  older  man. 

'Alas  !  master,  pardon  my  boldness,'  cried  the  neophyte, 
and  the  colour  mounted  to  his  face.  '  I  am  unknown — 
a  dauber  by  instinct,  and  but  lately  come  to  this  city — 
the  fountainhead  of  all  learning.' 

'Set  to  work,'  said  Porbus,  handing  him  a  bit  of  red 
chalk  and  a  sheet  of  paper. 

The  new-comer  quickly  sketched  the  Saint  Mary  line 
for  line. 

'Aha!'  exclaimed  the  old  man.  'Your  name?'  he 
added. 

The  young  man  wrote  '  Nicolas  Poussin  '  below  the 
sketch. 

'  Not  bad  that  for  a  beginning,'  said  the  strange 
speaker,  who  had  discoursed  so  wildly.  '  I  see  that  we 
can  talk  of  art  in  your  presence.  I  do  not  blame  you  for 
admiring  Porbus's  saint.  In  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  is 
a  masterpiece,  and  those  alone  who  have  been  initiated  into 
the  inmost  mysteries  of  art  can  discover  her  short- 
comings. But  it  is  worth  while  to  give  you  the  lesson, 
for  you  are  able  to  understand  it,  so  I  will  show  you  how 
little  it  needs  to  complete  this  picture.  You  must  be  all 
eyes,  all  attention,  for  it  may  be  that  such  a  chance  of 
learning  will  never  come  in  your  way  again. — Porbus  ! 
your  palette.' 

Porbus  went  in  search  of  palette  and  brushes.  The 
little  old    man   turned   back   his  sleeves  with  impatient 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  1 1 

energy,  seized  the  palette,  covered  with  many  hues,  that 
Porbus  handed  to  him,  and  snatched  rather  than  took  a 
handful  of  brushes  of  various  sizes  from  the  hands  of  his 
acquaintance.  His  pointed  beard  suddenly  bristled — a 
menacing  movement  that  expressed  the  prick  of  a  lover's 
fancy.  As  he  loaded  his  brush,  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth,  'These  paints  are  only  fit  to  fling  out  of  the 
window,  together  with  the  fellow  who  ground  them, 
their  crudeness  and  falseness  are  disgusting  !  How  can 
one  paint  with  this  ?  ' 

He  dipped  the  tip  of  the  brush  with  feverish  eagerness 
in  the  different  pigments,  making  the  circuit  of  the 
palette  several  times  more  quickly  than  the  organist  of  a 
cathedral  sweeps  the  octaves  on  the  keyboard  of  his  clavier 
for  the  O  Filii  at  Easter. 

Porbus  and  Poussin,  on  either  side  of  the  easel,  stood 
stock-still,  watching  with  intense  interest. 

*  Look,  young  man,'  he  began  again,  '  see  how  three  or 
four  strokes  of  the  brush  and  a  thin  glaze  of  blue  let  in 
the  free  air  to  play  about  the  head  of  the  poor  Saint,  who 
must  have  felt  stifled  and  oppressed  by  the  close  atmo- 
sphere! See  how  the  drapery  begins  to  flutter;  you  feel 
that  it  is  lifted  by  the  breeze  !  A  moment  ago  it  hung  as 
heavily  and  stiffly  as  if  it  were  held  out  by  pins.  Do  you 
see  how  the  satin  sheen  that  I  have  just  given  to  the 
breast  rends  the  pliant,  silken  softness  of  a  young  girl's 
skin,  and  how  the  brown  red,  blended  with  burnt  ochre, 
brings  warmth  into  the  cold  grey  of  the  deep  shadow 
where  the  blood  lay  congealed  instead  of  coursing  through 
the  veins  ?  Young  man,  young  man,  no  master  could 
teach  you  how  to  do  this  that  I  am  doing  before  your 
eyes.  Mabuse  alone  possessed  the  secret  of  giving  life  to 
his  figures  ;  Mabuse  had  but  one  pupil — that  was  I.  I 
have  had  none,  and  I  am  old.  You  have  suiSeient  intel- 
ligence to  imagine  the  rest  from  the  glimp^^cb  that  I  am 
giving  you.' 

While  the  old  man  was  speaking,  he  gave  a  touch  here 


12  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

and  there  ;  sometimes  two  strokes  of  the  brush,  sometimes 
a  single  one  ;  but  every  stroke  told  so  well,  that  the 
whole  picture  seemed  transfigured — the  painting  was 
flooded  with  light.  He  worked  with  such  passionate 
fervour,  that  beads  of  sweat  gathered  upon  his  bare  fore- 
head ;  he  worked  so  quickly,  in  brief,  impatient  jerks,  that 
it  seemed  to  young  Poussin  as  if  some  familiar  spirit 
inhabiting  the  body  of  this  strange  being  took  a  grotesque 
pleasure  in  making  use  of  the  man's  hands  against  his  ow^n 
will.  The  unearthly  glitter  of  his  eyes,  the  convulsive 
movements  that  seemed  like  struggles,  gave  to  this  fancy 
a  semblance  of  truth  which  could  not  but  stir  a  young 
imagination.  The  old  man  continued,  saying  as  he 
did  so — 

*  Paf  !  paf  !  that  is  how  to  lay  it  on,  young  man  ! — 
Little  touches  !  come  and  bring  a  glow  into  those  icy 
cold  tones  for  me  !  Just  so  !  Pon  !  pon  !  pon  !  '  and 
those  parts  of  the  picture  that  he  had  pointed  out  as  cold 
and  lifeless  flushed  with  warmer  hues,  a  few  bold  strokes 
of  colour  brought  all  the  tones  of  the  pictures  into  the 
required  harmony  with  the  glowing  tints  of  the  Egyptian, 
and  the  differences  in  temperament  vanished. 

'Look  you,  youngster,  the  last  touches  make  the 
picture.  Porbus  has  given  it  a  hundred  strokes  for  every 
one  of  mine.  No  one  thanks  us  for  what  lies  beneath. 
Bear  that  in  mind.' 

At  last  the  restless  spirit  stopped,  and  turning  to  Porbus 
and  Poussin,  who  were  speechless  with  admiration,  he 
spoke — 

'  This  is  not  as  good  as  my  Belle  Noiseuse  ;  still  one 
might  put  one's  name  to  such  a  thing  as  this. — Yes,  I 
would  put  my  name  to  it,'  he  added,  rising  to  reach  for  a 
mirror,  in  which  he  looked  at  the  picture. — '  And  now,' 
he  said,  '  will  you  both  come  and  breakfast  with  me.  I 
have  a  smoked  ham  and  some  very  fair  wine  !  .  .  .  Eh  ! 
eh  !  the  times  may  be  bad,  but  we  can  still  have  some 
talk  about  art  !     VVe  can  talk  like  equals.  .  .  .  Here  is  a 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  13 

little  fellow  who  has  aptitude,'  he  added,  laying  a  hand  on 
Nicolas  Poussin's  shoulder. 

In  this  way  the  stranger  became  aware  of  the  thread- 
bare condition  of  the  Norman's  doublet.  He  drew  a 
leather  purse  from  his  girdle,  felt  in  it,  found  two  gold 
coins,  and  held  them  out. 

*  I  will  buy  your  sketch,'  he  said. 

*  Take  it,'  said  Porbus,  as  he  saw  the  other  start  and 
flush  with  embarrassment,  for  Poussin  had  the  pride  of 
poverty.  'Pray  take  iti  he  has  a  couple  of  king's  ransoms 
in  his  pouch  !  ' 

The  three  came  down  together  from  the  studio,  and, 
talking  of  art  by  the  way,  reached  a  picturesque  wooden 
house  hard  by  the  Pont  Saint-Michel.  Poussin  wondered 
a  moment  at  its  ornament,  at  the  knocker,  at  the  frames  of 
the  casements,  at  the  scroll-work  designs,  and  in  the  next 
he  stood  in  a  vast  low-ceiled  room.  A  table,  covered 
with  tempting  dishes,  stood  near  the  blazing  fire,  and 
(luck  unhoped  for)  he  was  in  the  company  of  two  great 
artists  full  of  genial  good  humour. 

'Do  not  look  too  long  at  that  canvas,  young  man,' 
said  Porbus,  when  he  saw  that  Poussin  was  standing, 
struck  with  wonder,  before  a  painting.  *  You  would  fall 
a  victim  to  despair.' 

It  was  the  Adam  painted  by  Mabuse  to  purchase  his 
release  from  the  prison  where  his  creditors  had  so  long 
kept  him.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  figure  stood  out 
so  boldly  and  convincingly,  that  Nicolas  Poussin  began 
to  understand  the  real  meaning  of  the  words  poured  out 
by  the  old  artist,  who  was  himself  looking  at  the  picture 
with  apparent  satisfaction,  but  without  enthusiasm.  'I 
have  done  better  than  that  !  '  he  seemed  to  be  saying  to 
himself. 

'  There  is  life  in  it,'  he  said  aloud  ;  '  in  that  respect  my 
poor  master  here  surpassed  himself,  but  there  is  some 
lack  of  truth  in  the  background.  The  man  lives  indeed  ; 
he  is  rising,  and  will  come  towards  us  j  but  the  atmo- 


14  The  Unknown   Masterpiece 

sphere,  the  sky,  the  air,  the  breath  of  the  breeze — you 
look  and  feel  for  them,  but  they  are  not  there.  And 
then  the  man  himself  is,  after  all,  only  a  man  !  Ah  ! 
hut  the  one  man  in  the  world  who  came  direct  from  the 
hands  of  God  must  have  had  a  something  divine  about 
him  that  is  wanting  here.  Mabuse  himself  would  grind 
his  teeth  and  say  so  when  he  was  not  drunk.' 

Poussin  looked  from  the  speaker  to  Porbus,  and  from 
Porbus  to  the  speaker,  with  restless  curiosity.  He 
went  up  to  the  latter  to  ask  for  the  name  of  their  host  ; 
but  the  painter  laid  a  finger  on  his  lips  with  an  air  of 
mystery.  The  young  man's  interest  was  excited  ;  he 
kept  silence,  but  hoped  that  sooner  or  later  some  word 
might  be  let  fall  that  would  reveal  the  name  of  his 
entertainer.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  man  of  talent 
and  very  wealthy,  for  Porbus  listened  to  him  respectfully, 
and  the  vast  room  was  crowded  with  marvels  of  art. 

A  magnificent  portrait  of  a  woman,  hung  against  the 
dark  oak  panels  of  the  wall,  next  caught  Poussin's 
attention. 

'  What  a  glorious  Giorgione  !  '  he  cried. 

*  No,'  said  his  host,  *■  it  is  an  early  daub  of  mine ' 

* Giamercy  !  I  am  in  the  abode  of  the  god  of 
painting,  it  seems  !  '  cried  Poussin  ingenuously. 

The  old  man  smiled  as  if  he  had  long  grown  familiar 
with  such  praise. 

'  Master  Frenhofer  !  '  said  Porbus,  '  do  you  think  you 
could  send  me  à  little  of  your  capital  Rhine  wine  ? 

*  A  couple  of  pipes  !  '  answered  his  host  ;  '  one  to 
discharge  a  debt,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  pretty 
sinner,  the  other  as  a  present  from  a  friend.' 

*  Ah  !  if  I  had  my  health,'  returned  Porbus,  *  and  if 
you  would  but  let  me  see  your  Belle  Noiseuse^  I  would 
paint  some  great  picture,  with  breadth  in  it  and  depth  ; 
the  figures  should  be  life-size.' 

'  Let  you  see  my  work  !  '  cried  the  painter  in  agitation. 
*  No,  no  !  it  is  not  perfect  yet  ;  something  still  remains 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  15 

for  me  to  do.  Yesterday,  in  the  dusk,'  he  said,  'I 
thought  I  had  reached  the  end.  Her  eyes  seemed  moist, 
the  flesh  quivered,  something  stirred  the  tresses  of  her 
hair.  She  breathed  !  But  though  I  have  succeeded  in 
reproducing  Nature's  roundness  and  relief  on  the  flat 
surface  of  the  canvas,  this  morning,  by  daylight,  I 
found  out  my  mistake.  Ah  !  to  achieve  that  glorious 
result  I  have  studied  the  works  of  the  great  masters  of 
colour,  stripping  off  coat  after  coat  of  colour  from 
Titian's  canvas,  analysing  the  pigments  of  the  king  of 
light.  Like  that  sovereign  painter,  I  began  the  face  in 
a  slight  tone  with  a  supple  and  fat  paste — for  shadow 
is  but  an  accident  ;  bear  that  in  mind,  youngster  ! 
— Then  I  began  afresh,  and  by  half-tones  and  thin 
glazes  of  colour  less  and  less  transparent,  I  gradually 
deepened  the  tints  to  the  deepest  black  of  the  strongest 
shadows.  An  ordinary  painter  makes  his  shadows  some- 
thing entirely  different  in  nature  from  the  high  lights  ; 
they  are  wood  or  brass,  or  what  you  will,  anything  but 
flesh  in  shadow.  You  feel  that  even  if  those  figures 
were  to  alter  their  position,  those  shadow  stains  would 
never  be  cleansed  away,  those  parts  of  the  picture  would 
never  glow  with  light. 

'  I  have  escaped  one  mistake,  into  which  the  most 
famous  painters  have  sometimes  fallen  ;  in  my  canvas  the 
whiteness  shines  through  the  densest  and  most  persistent 
shadow.  I  have  not  marked  out  the  limits  of  my  figure  in 
hard,  dry  outlines,  and  brought  every  least  anatomical  detail 
into  prominence  (like  a  host  of  dunces,  who  fancy  that  they 
can  draw  because  they  can  trace  a  line  elaborately  smooth 
and  clean),  for  the  human  body  is  not  contained  within 
the  limits  of  line.  In  this  the  sculptor  can  approach  the 
truth  more  nearly  than  we  painters.  Nature's  way  is  a 
complicated  succession  of  curve  within  curve.  Strictly 
speaking,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  drawing. — Do  not 
laugh,  young  man  ;  strange  as  that  speech  may  seem  to 
you,  you  will  understand  the  truth  in  it  some  day. — A 


1 6  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

line  is  a  method  of  expressing  the  effect  of  light  upon  an 
object  ;  but  there  are  no  lines  in  nature,  everything  is 
solid.  We  draw  by  modelling,  that  is  to  say,  that  we 
disengage  an  object  from  its  setting  ;  the  distribution  of 
the  light  alone  gives  to  a  body  the  appearance  by  which 
we  know  it.  So  I  have  not  defined  the  outlines  ;  I  have 
suffused  them  with  a  haze  of  half-tints  warm  or  golden, 
in  such  a  sort  that  you  cannot  lay  your  finger  on  the 
exact  spot  vi^here  background  and  contours  meet.  Seen 
from  near,  the  picture  looks  a  blur  ;  it  seems  to  lack 
definition  ;  but  step  back  two  paces,  and  the  whole  thing 
becomes  clear,  distinct,  and  solid  ;  the  body  stands  out, 
the  rounded  form  comes  into  relief;  you  feel  that  the  air 
plays  round  it.  And  yet — I  am  not  satisfied  ;  I  have 
misgivings.  Perhaps  one  ought  not  to  draw  a  single 
line  ;  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  attack  the  face  from 
the  centre,  taking  the  highest  prominences  first,  proceed- 
ing from  them  through  the  whole  range  of  shadows  to  the 
heaviest  of  all.  Is  not  this  the  method  of  the  sun,  the 
divine  painter  of  the  world  ?  Oh,  Nature,  Nature  !  who 
has  surprised  thee,  fugitive  ?  But,  after  all,  too  much 
knowledge,  like  ignorance,  brings  you  to  a  negation.  I 
have  doubts  about  my  work.' 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  the  old  man  spoke  again. 
'  I  have  been  at  work  upon  it  for  ten  years,  young  man  j 
but  what  are  ten  short  years  in  a  struggle  v^^ith  Nature  ? 
Do  we  know  how  long  Sir  Pygmalion  wrought  at  the 
one  statue  that  came  to  life  ?  ' 

The  old  man  fell  into  deep  musings,  and  gazed  before 
him  with  wide  unseeing  eyes,  while  he  played  unheed- 
ingly  with  his  knife. 

'  Look,  he  is  in  converse  with  his  damon  !  '  murmured 
Porbus. 

At  the  word,  Nicolas  Poussin  felt  himself  carried 
away  by  an  unaccountable  accession  of  artist's  curiosity. 
For  him  the  old  man,  at  once  intent  and  inert,  the  seer 
with  the  unseeing  eyes,  became  something  more  than  a 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  17 

man — a  fantastic  spirit  living  in  a  mysterious  world,  and 
countless  vague  thoughts  awoke  within  his  soul.  The 
effect  of  this  species  of  fascination  upon  his  mind  can  no 
more  be  described  in  words  than  the  passionate  longing 
awakened  in  an  exile's  heart  by  the  song  that  recalls  his 
home.  He  thought  of  the  scorn  that  the  old  man 
affected  to  display  for  the  noblest  efforts  of  art,  of  his 
wealth,  his  manners,  of  the  deference  paid  to  him  by  Por- 
bus.  The  mysterious  picture,  the  work  of  patience  on 
which  he  had  wrought  so  long  in  secret,  was  doubtless  a 
work  of  genius,  for  the  head  of  the  Virgin  which  young 
Poussin  had  admired  so  frankly  was  beautiful  even  beside 
Mabuse's  Adam — there  was  no  mistaking  the  imperial 
manner  of  one  of  the  princes  of  art.  Everything  com- 
bined to  set  the  old  man  beyond  the  limits  of  human 
nature. 

Out  of  the  wealth  of  fancies  in  Nicolas  Poussin's 
brain  an  idea  grew,  and  gathered  shape  and  clearness. 
He  saw  in  this  supernatural  being  a  complete  type  of  the 
artist  nature,  a  nature  mocking  and  kindly,  barren  and 
prolific,  an  erratic  spirit  intrusted  with  great  and  manifold 
powers  which  she  too  often  abuses,  leading  sober  reason, 
the  Philistine,  and  sometimes  even  the  amateur  forth  into 
a  stony  wilderness  where  they  see  nothing  ;  but  the  white- 
winged  maiden  herself,  wild  as  her  fancies  may  be,  finds 
epics  there  and  castles  and  works  of  art.  For  Poussin, 
the  enthusiast,  the  old  man,  was  suddenly  transfigured, 
and  became  Art  incarnate.  Art  with  its  mysteries,  its 
vehement  passion  and  its  dreams. 

'  Yes,  my  dear  Porbus,'  Frenhofer  continued,  *  hitherto 
I  have  never  found  a  flawless  model,  a  body  with  outlines 
of  perfect  beauty,  the  carnations — Ah  !  where  does  she 
live  ?  '  he  cried,  breaking  in  upon  himself,  *  the  undiscover- 
able  Venus  of  the  older  time,  for  whom  we  have  sought 
so  often,  only  to  find  the  scattered  gleams  of  her  beauty 
here  and  there  ?  Oh  !  to  behold  once  and  for  one 
moment,  Nature  grown  perfect  and  divine,  the  Ideal  at 

fi 


1 8  The  Unknov/n   Masterpiece 

last,  I  would  give  all  that  I  possess.  .  .  .  Nay,  Beauty 
divine,  I  would  go  to  seek  thee  in  the  dim  land  of  the 
dead  ;  like  Orpheus,  I  would  go  down  into  the  Hades  of 
Art  to  bring  back  the  life  of  art  from  among  the  shadows 
of  death.' 

'  We  can  go  now,'  said  Porbus  to  Poussin.  '  He 
neither  hears  nor  sees  us  any  longer.' 

'  Let  us  go  to  his  studio,'  said  young  Poussin,  wonder- 
ing greatly. 

*  Oh  !  the  old  fox  takes  care  that  no  one  shall  enter 
it.  His  treasures  are  so  carefully  guarded  that  it  is 
impossible  for  us  to  come  at  them.  I  have  not  waited 
for  your  suggestion  and  your  fancy  to  attempt  to  lay 
hands  on  this  mystery  by  force.' 

'  So  there  is  a  mystery  ?  ' 

*Yes,'  answered  Porbus.  *  Old  Frenhofer  is  the  only 
pupil  Mabuse  would  take.  Frenhofer  became  the 
painter's  friend,  deliverer,  and  father  ;  he  sacrificed  the 
greater  part  of  his  fortune  to  enable  Mabuse  to  indulge  in 
riotous  extravagance,  and  in  return  Mabuse  bequeathed  to 
him  the  secret  of  relief,  the  power  of  giving  to  his  figures 
the  wonderful  life,  the  flower  of  Nature,  the  eternal 
despair  of  art,  the  secret  which  Mabuse  knew  so  well  that 
one  day  when  he  had  sold  the  flowered  brocade  suit  in 
which  he  should  have  appeared  at  the  Entry  of  Charles  v., 
he  accompanied  his  master  in  a  suit  of  paper  painted  to 
resemble  the  brocade.  The  peculiar  richness  and  splen- 
dour of  the  stuff  struck  the  Emperor  ;  he  complimented 
the  old  drunkard's  patron  on  the  artist's  appearance,  and 
so  the  trick  was  brought  to  light.  Frenhofer  is  a 
passionate  enthusiast,  who  sees  above  and  beyond  other 
painters.  He  has  meditated  profoundly  on  colour,  and 
the  absolute  truth  of  line  ;  but  by  the  way  of  much 
research  he  has  come  to  doubt  the  very  existence  of  the 
objects  of  his  search.  He  says,  in  moments  of  despon- 
dency, that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  drawing,  and  that 
by  means  of  lines  we  can  only  reproduce  geometrical 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  19 

figures  ;  but  that  is  overshooting  the  mark,  for  by 
outline  and  shadow  you  can  reproduce  form  without 
any  colour  at  all,  which  shows  that  our  art,  like  Nature, 
is  composed  of  an  infinite  number  of  elements.  Drawing 
gives  you  the  skeleton,  the  anatomical  framework,  and 
colour  puts  the  life  into  it  ;  but  life  without  the  skeleton 
is  even  more  incomplete  than  a  skeleton  without  life. 
But  there  is  something  else  truer  still,  and  it  is  this — 
for  painters,  practice  and  observation  are  everything  ;  and 
when  theories  and  poetical  ideas  begin  to  quarrel  with 
the  brushes,  the  end  is  doubt,  as  has  happened  with  our 
good  friend,  who  is  half  crack-brained  enthusiast,  half 
painter.  A  sublime  painter  !  but,  unluckily  for  him,  he 
was  born  to  riches,  and  so  he  has  leisure  to  follow  his  fancies. 
Do  not  you  follow  his  example  !  Work  !  painters  have 
no  business  to  think,  except  brush  in  hand.' 

'  We  will  find  a  way  into  his  studio  !  '  cried  Poussin 
confidently.  He  had  ceased  to  heed  Porbus's  remarks. 
The  other  smiled  at  the  young  painter's  enthusiasm, 
asked  him  to  come  to  see  him  again,  and  they  parted. 

Nicolas  Poussin  went  slowly  back  to  the  Rue  de  la 
Harpe,  and  passed  the  modest  hostelry  where  he  was 
lodging  without  noticing  it.  A  feeling  of  uneasiness 
prompted  him  to  hurry  up  the  crazy  staircase  till  he 
reached  a  room  at  the  top,  a  quaint,  airy  recess  under  the 
steep,  high-pitched  roof  common  among  houses  in  old 
Paris.  In  the  one  dingy  window  of  the  place  sat  a 
young  girl,  who  sprang  up  at  once  when  she  heard  some 
one  at  the  door  ;  it  was  the  prompting  of  love  ;  she  had 
recognised  the  painter's  touch  on  the  latch. 

*  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  '  she  asked. 

*  The  matter  is  .  .  .  is  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  have  felt  that  I 
am  a  painter  !  Until  to-day  I  have  had  doubts,  but  now 
I  believe  in  myself!  There  is  the  making  of  a  great 
man  in  me  !  Never  mind,  Gillette,  we  shall  be  rich  and 
happy  !     There  is  gold  at  the  tips  of  those  brushes ' 

He   broke   off  suddenly.      The  joy   faded   from   his 


20  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

powerful  and  earnest  face  as  he  compared  his  vast  hopes 
with  his  slender  resources.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  sketches  in  chalk  on  sheets  of  common  paper. 
There  were  but  four  canvases  in  the  room.  Colours 
were  very  costly,  and  the  young  painter's  palette  was 
almost  bare.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  his  poverty  he  possessed 
and  was  conscious  of  the  possession  of  inexhaustible 
treasures  of  the  heart,  of  a  devouring  genius  equal  to  all 
the  tasks  that  lay  before  him. 

He  had  been  brought  to  Paris  by  a  nobleman  among 
his  friends,  or  perchance  by  the  consciousness  of  his 
powers  ;  and  in  Paris  he  had  found  a  mistress,  one  of 
those  noble  and  generous  souls  who  choose  to  suffer  by 
a  great  man's  side,  who  share  his  struggles  and  strive  to 
understand  his  fancies,  accepting  their  lot  of  poverty  and 
love  as  bravely  and  dauntlessly  as  other  women  will  set 
themselves  to  bear  the  burden  of  riches  and  make  a 
parade  of  their  insensibility.  The  smile  that  stole  over 
Gillette's  lips  filled  the  garret  with  golden  light,  and 
rivalled  the  brightness  of  the  sun  in  heaven.  The  sun, 
moreover,  does  not  always  shine  in  heaven,  whereas 
Gillette  was  always  in  the  garret,  absorbed  in  her 
passion,  occupied  by  Poussin's  happiness  and  sorrow,  con- 
soling the  genius  which  found  an  outlet  in  love  before  art 
engrossed  it. 

'  Listen,  Gillette.     Come  here.' 

The  girl  obeyed  joyously,  and  sprang  upon  the 
painter's  knev°.  Hers  was  perfect  grace  and  beauty, 
and  the  loveliness  of  spring  ;  she  was  adorned  with  all 
luxuriant  fairness  of  outward  form,  lighted  up  by  the 
glow  of  a  fair  soul  within. 

*  Oh  !  God,'  he  cried  ;  *  I  shall  never  dare  to  tell 
her ' 

*  A  secret  ?  '  she  cried  ;  *  I  must  know  it  !  ' 
Poussin  was  absorbed  in  his  dreams. 

*  Do  tell  it  me  !  ' 

*  Gillette,  .  .  .  poor  beloved  heart  !  ,  .  .* 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  21 

'  Oh  !  do  you  want  something  of  me  ?  ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  If  you  wish  me  to  sit  once  more  for  you  as  I  did  the 
other  day,'  she  continued  with  playful  petulance,  '  I  will 
never  consent  to  do  such  a  thing  again,  for  your  eyes  say 
nothing  all  the  while.  You  do  not  think  of  me  at  all, 
and  yet  you  look  at  me ' 

*  Would  you  rather  have  me  draw  another  woman  ?  ' 

*  Perhaps — if  she  were  very  ugly,'  she  said. 

*  Well,'  said  Poussin  gravely,  '  and  if,  for  the  sake  of 
my  fame  to  come,  if  to  make  me  a  great  painter,  you 
must  sit  to  some  one  else  ?  ' 

'  You  may  try  me,'  she  said  ;  *  you  know  quite  well 
that  I  would  not.' 

Poussin's  head  sank  on  her  breast  ;  he  seemed  to  be 
overpowered  by  some  intolerable  joy  or  sorrow. 

'  Listen,'  she  cried,  plucking  at  the  sleeve  of  Poussin's 
threadbare  doublet.  '  I  told  you,  Nick,  that  I  would  lay 
down  my  life  for  you  ;  but  I  never  promised  you  that  I 
in  my  lifetime  would  lay  down  my  love.' 

*  Your  love  ?  '  cried  the  young  artist. 

*  If  I  showed  myself  thus  to  another,  you  would  love 
me  no  longer,  and  I  should  feel  myself  unworthy  of  you. 
Obedience  to  your  fancies  was  a  natural  and  simple 
thing,  was  it  not  ?  Even  against  my  own  will,  I  am 
glad  and  even  proud  to  do  thy  dear  will.  But  for 
another,  out  upon  it  !  ' 

'  Forgive  me,  my  Gillette,'  said  the  painter,  falling 
upon  his  knees  ;  '  I  would  rather  be  beloved  than 
famous.  You  are  fairer  than  success  and  honours.  There; 
fling  the  pencils  away,  and  burn  these  sketches  !  I  have 
made  a  mistake.  I  was  meant  to  love  and  not  to  paint. 
Perish  art  and  all  its  secrets  !  ' 

Gillette  looked  admiringly  at  him,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
happiness  !  She  was  triumphant  ;  she  felt  instinctively 
that  art  was  laid  aside  for  her  sake,  and  flung  like  a  grain 
of  incense  at  her  feet. 


22  The   Unknown  Masterpiece 

'  Yet  he  is  only  an  old  man,'  Poussin  continued  ;  *  for 
him  you  would  be  a  woman,  and  nothing  more.  You — 
so  perfect  !  ' 

'  I  must  love  you  indeed  !  '  she  cried,  ready  to  sacrifice 
even  love's  scruples  to  the  lover  who  had  given  up  so 
much  for  her  sake  ;  *  but  I  should  bring  about  my  own 
ruin.  Ah  !  to  ruin  myself,  to  lose  everything  for 
you  !  ...  It  is  a  very  glorious  thought  !  Ah  !  but 
you  will  forget  me.  Oh  !  what  evil  thought  is  this 
that  has  come  to  you  ?  ' 

'  I  love  you,  and  yet  I  thought  of  it,'  he  said,  with 
something  like  remorse.     *  Am  I  so  base  a  wretch  ?  ' 

'  Let  us  consult  Père  Hardouin,'  she  said. 

*  No,  no  !  let  it  be  a  secret  between  us.' 

'  Very  well  ;  I  will  do  it.  But  you  must  not  be  there,* 
she  said.  *  Stay  at  the  door  with  your  dagger  in  your 
hand  ;  and  if  I  call,  rush  in  and  kill  the  painter.' 

Poussin  forgot  everything  but  art.  He  held  Gillette 
tightly  in  his  arms. 

'He  loves  me  no  longer  !  '  thought  Gillette  when  she 
was  alone.     She  repented  of  her  resolution  already. 

But  to  these  misgivings  there  soon  succeeded  a  sharper 
pain,  and  she  strove  to  banish  a  hideous  thought  that 
arose  in  her  own  heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  own 
love  had  grown  less  already,  with  a  vague  suspicion  that 
the  painter  had  fallen  somewhat  in  her  eyes. 


II.  CATHERINE  LESCAULT 


Three  months  after  Poussin  and  Porbus  met,  the 
latter  went  to  see  Master  Frenhofer.  The  old  man  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  one  of  those  profound  and  spontaneous 
fits  of  discouragement  that  are  caused,  according  to 
medical  logicians,  by  indigestion,  flatulence,  fever,  or 
enlargement  of  the  spleen  j  or,  if  you  take  the  opinion 


The  Unknown   Masterpiece  23 

of  the  Spiritualists,  by  the  imperfections  of  our  moral 
nature.  The  good  man  had  simply  overworked  himself 
in  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his  mysterious  picture. 
He  was  lounging  in  a  huge  carved  oak  chair,  covered 
with  black  leather,  and  did  not  change  his  listless  atti- 
tude, but  glanced  at  Porbus  like  a  man  who  has  settled 
down  into  low  spirits. 

'  Well,  master,'  said  Porbus,  '  was  the  ultramarine 
bad  that  you  sent  for  to  Bruges  ?  Is  the  new  white 
difficult  to  grind  ?  Is  the  oil  poor,  or  are  the  brushes 
recalcitrant  ?  ' 

'  Alas  !  '  cried  the  old  man,  *  for  a  moment  I  thought 
that  my  work  was  finished  j  but  I  am  sure  that  I  am 
mistaken  in  certain  details,  and  I  cannot  rest  until  I  have 
cleared  my  doubts.  I  am  thinking  of  travelling.  I  am 
going  to  Turkey,  to  Greece,  to  Asia,  in  quest  of  a  model, 
so  as  to  compare  my  picture  with  the  different  living 
forms  of  Nature.  Perhaps,'  and  a  smile  of  contentment 
stole  over  his  face,  'perhaps  I  have  Nature  herself  up 
there.  At  times  I  am  half  afraid  that  a  breath  may  waken 
her,  and  that  she  will  escape  me.' 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  if  to  set  out  at  once. 

*  Aha  !  '  said  Porbus,  '  I  have  come  just  in  time  to 
save  you  the  trouble  and  expense  of  a  journey.' 

'What  ?  '  asked  Frenhofer  in  amazement. 

'  Young  Poussin  is  loved  by  a  woman  of  incomparable 
and  flawless  beauty.  But,  dear  master,  if  he  consents  to 
lend  her  to  you,  at  the  least  you  ought  to  let  us  see  your 
work.' 

The  old  man  stood  motionless  and  completely  dazed. 

'  What  !  '  he  cried  piteously  at  last,  '  show  you  my 
creation,  my  bride  ?  Rend  the  veil  that  has  kept  my 
happiness  sacred  ?  It  would  be  an  infamous  profanation. 
For  ten  years  I  have  lived  with  her  ;  she  is  mine,  mine 
alone  ;  she  loves  me.  Has  she  not  smiled  at  me,  at  each 
stroke  of  the  brush  upon  the  canvas  ?  She  has  a  soul — 
the  soul  that  I  have  given  her.     She  would  blush  if  any 


24  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

eyes  but  mine  should  rest  on  her.  To  exhibit  her  ! 
Where  is  the  husband,  the  lover  so  vile  as  to  bring  the 
woman  he  loves  to  dishonour  ?  When  you  paint  a 
picture  for  the  court,  you  do  not  put  your  whole  soul 
into  it  ;  to  courtiers  you  sell  lay  figures  duly  coloured. 
My  painting  is  no  painting,  it  is  a  sentiment,  a  passion. 
She  was  born  in  my  studio,  there  she  must  dw^ell  in 
maiden  solitude,  and  only  when  clad  can  she  issue  thence. 
Poetry  and  women  only  lay  the  last  veil  aside  for  their 
lovers.  Have  we  Rafael's  model,  Ariosto's  Angelica, 
Dante's  Beatrice  ?  Nay,  only  their  form  and  semblance. 
But  this  picture,  locked  away  above  in  my  studio,  is  an 
exception  in  our  art.  It  is  not  a  canvas,  it  is  a  woman — 
a  woman  with  whom  I  talk.  I  share  her  thoughts,  her 
tears,  her  laughter.  Would  you  have  me  fling  aside 
these  ten  years  of  happiness  like  a  cloak  ?  Would  you 
have  me  cease  at  once  to  be  father,  lover,  and  creator  ? 
She  is  not  a  creature,  but  a  creation. 

'  Bring  your  young  painter  here.  I  will  give  him  my 
treasures  ;  I  will  give  him  pictures  by  Correggio  and 
Michel  Angelo  and  Titian  ;  I  will  kiss  his  footprints  in 
the  dust  ;  but — make  him  my  rival  !  Shame  on  me.  Ah  ! 
ah  !  I  am  a  lover  first,  and  then  a  painter.  Yes,  with 
my  latest  sigh  I  could  find  strength  to  burn  my  Belle 
Noiseuse  ;  but — compel  her  to  endure  the  gaze  of  a  stranger, 
a  young  man  and  a  painter  ! — Ah  !  no,  no  !  I  would 
kill  him  on  the  morrow  who  should  sully  her  with  a 
glance  !  Nay,  you,  my  friend,  I  would  kill  you  with 
my  own  hands  in  a  moment  if  you  did  not  kneel  in 
reverence  before  her  !  Now,  will  you  have  me  sub- 
mit my  idol  to  the  careless  eyes  and  senseless  criticisms 
of  fools  ?  Ah  !  love  is  a  mystery  ;  it  can  only  live 
hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  heart.  You  say,  even  to 
your  friend,  "  Behold  her  whom  I  love,"  and  there  is 
an  end  of  love.' 

The  old  man  seemed  to  have  grown  young  again  ; 
there  was  light  and  life  in  his  eyes,  and  a  faint  flush  of 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  25 

red  in  his  pale  face.  His  hands  shook.  Porbus  was  so 
amazed  by  the  passionate  vehemence  of  Frenhofer's 
words  that  he  knew  not  what  to  reply  to  this  utterance 
of  an  emotion  as  strange  as  it  was  profound.  Was 
Frenhofer  sane  or  mad  ?  Had  he  fallen  a  victim  to 
some  freak  of  the  artist's  fancy  ?  or  were  these  ideas  of 
his  produced  by  that  strange  lightheadedness  which 
comes  over  us  during  the  long  travail  of  a  work  of  art. 
Would  it  be  possible  to  come  to  terms  with  this  singular 
passion  ? 

Harassed  by  all  these  doubts,  Porbus  spoke — *  Is  it  not 
woman  for  woman  ?  '  he  said.  '  Does  not  Poussin  submit 
his  mistress  to  your  gaze  ?  ' 

'  What  is  she  ?  '  retorted  the  other.  *  A  mistress  who 
will  be  false  to  him  sooner  or  later.  Mine  will  be  faith- 
ful to  me  for  ever.' 

'  Well,  well,'  said  Porbus,  *  let  us  say  no  more  about  it. 
But  you  may  die  before  you  will  find  such  flawless 
beauty  as  hers,  even  in  Asia,  and  then  your  picture  will 
be  left  unfinished. 

'  Oh  !  it  is  finished,'  said  Frenhofer.  *  Standing  before 
it  you  would  think  that  it  was  a  living  woman  lying  on 
the  velvet  couch  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curtains. 
Perfumes  are  burning  on  a  golden  tripod  by  her  side. 
You  would  be  tempted  to  lay  your  hand  upon  the  tassel 
of  the  cord  that  holds  back  the  curtains  ;  it  would  seem 
to  you  that  you  saw  her  breast  rise  and  fall  as  she 
breathed  ;  that  you  beheld  the  living  Catherine  Lescault, 
the  beautiful  courtesan  whom  men  called  La  Belle 
Notseuse.     And  yet — if  I  could  but  be  sure ' 

'  Then  go  to  Asia,'  returned  Porbus,  noticing  a  certain 
indecision  in  Frenhofer's  face.  And  with  that  Porbus 
made  a  few  steps  towards  the  door. 

By  that  time  Gillette  and  Nicolas  Poussin  had  reached 
Frenhofer's  house.  The  girl  drew  away  her  arm  from 
her  lover's  as  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  and  shrank  back 
as  if  some  presentiment  flashed  through  her  mind. 


20  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

*  Oh  !  what  have  I  come  to  do  here  ?  '  she  asked  of  her 
lover  in  low  vibrating  tones,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
his. 

*  Gillette,  I  have  left  you  to  decide  ;  I  am  ready  to 
obey  you  in  everything.  You  are  my  conscience  and  my 
glory.  Go  home  again  ;  I  shall  be  happier,  perhaps,  if 
you  do  not ' 

'  Am  I  my  own  when  you  speak  to  me  like  that  ? 
No,  no  ;  I  am  like  a  child. — Come,'  she  added,  seemingly 
with  a  violent  effort  ;  '  if  our  love  dies,  if  I  plant  a  long 
regret  in  my  heart,  your  fame  will  be  the  reward  of  my 
obedience  to  your  wishes,  will  it  not  ?  Let  us  go  in.  I 
shall  still  live  on  as  a  memory  on  your  palette  ;  that  shall 
be  life  for  me  afterwards.' 

The  door  opened,  and  the  two  lovers  encountered 
Porbus,  who  was  surprised  by  the  beauty  of  Gillette, 
whose  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  He  hurried  her,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  into  the  presence  of  the  old  painter. 

*  Here  !  '  he  cried,  '  is  she  not  worth  all  the  master- 
pieces in  the  world  !  ' 

Frenhofer  trembled.  There  stood  Gillette  in  the 
artless  and  childlike  attitude  of  some  timid  and  innocent 
Georgian,  carried  off  by  brigands,  and  confronted  with 
a  slave  merchant.  A  shame-fast  red  flushed  her  face,  her 
eyes  drooped,  her  hands  hung  by  her  side,  her  strength 
seemed  to  have  failed  her,  her  tears  protested  against  this 
outrage.  Poussin  cursed  himself  in  despair  that  he  should 
have  brought  his  fair  treasure  from  its  hiding-place.  The 
lover  overcame  the  artist,  and  countless  doubts  assailed 
Poussin's  heart  when  he  saw  youth  dawn  in  the  old 
man's  eyes,  as,  like  a  painter,  he  discerned  every  line  of 
the  form  hidden  beneath  the  young  girl's  vesture.  Then 
the  lover's  savage  jealousy  awoke. 

'  Gillette  !  '  he  cried,  '  let  us  go.' 

The  girl  turned  joyously  at  the  cry  and  the  tone  in 
which  it  was  uttered,  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  looked  at 
him,  and  fled  to  his  arms. 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  27 

'Ah  !  then  you  love  me,'  she  cried  ;  *  you  love  me  !  ' 
and  she  burst  into  tears. 

She  had  spirit  enough  to  suffer  in  silence,  but  she  had 
no  strength  to  hide  her  joy. 

*  Oh  !  leave  her  with  me  for  one  moment,'  said  the  old 
painter,  *and  you  shall  compare  her  with  my  Catherine  . . . 
yes — I  consent.' 

Frenhofer's  words  likewise  came  from  him  like  a  lover's 
cry.  His  vanity  seemed  to  be  engaged  for  his  semblance 
of  womanhood  ;  he  anticipated  the  triumph  of  the  beauty 
of  his  own  creation  over  the  beauty  of  the  living  girl. 

'  Do  not  give  him  time  to  change  his  mind  !  '  cried 
Porbus,  striking  Poussin  on  the  shoulder.  *The  flower 
of  love  soon  fades,  but  the  flower  of  art  is  immortal.' 

*  Then  am  I  only  a  woman  now  for  him  ?  '  said 
Gillette.     She  was  watching  Poussin  and  Porbus  closely. 

She  raised  her  head  proudly  ;  she  glanced  at  Frenhofer, 
and  her  eyes  flashed  ;  then  as  she  saw  how  her  lover  had 
fallen  again  to  gazing  at  the  portrait  which  he  had  taken 
at  first  for  a  Giorgione — 

'  Ah  !  '  she  cried  ;  *  let  us  go  up  to  the  studio.  He 
never  gave  me  such  a  look.' 

The  sound  of  her  voice  recalled  Poussin  from  his 
dreams. 

*  Old  man,'  he  said,  '  do  you  see  this  blade  ?  I  will 
plunge  it  into  your  heart  at  the  first  cry  from  this  young 
girl  ;  I  will  set  fire  to  your  house,  and  no  one  shall  leave 
it  alive.     Do  you  understand  ?  ' 

Nicolas  Poussin  scowled,  every  word  was  a  menace. 
Gillette  took  comfort  from  the  young  painter's  bearing, 
and  yet  more  from  that  gesture,  and  almost  forgave  him 
for  sacrificing  her  to  his  art  and  his  glorious  future. 

Porbus  and  Poussin  stood  at  the  door  of  the  studio  and 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  At  first  the  painter  of 
the  Saint  Mary  of  Egypt  hazarded  some  exclamations  : 
*  Ah  !  she  has  taken  off  her  clothes  ;  he  told  her  to  come 
into  the  light— he  is  comparing  the  two  !  '  but  the  sight 


28  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

of  the  deep  distress  in  Poussin's  face  suddenly  silenced 
him  J  and  though  old  painters  no  longer  feel  these 
scruples,  so  petty  in  the  presence  of  art,  he  admired  them 
because  they  were  so  natural  and  gracious  in  the  lover. 
The  young  man  kept  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  dagger, 
and  his  ear  was  almost  glued  to  the  door.  The  two  men 
standing  in  the  shadow  might  have  been  conspirators 
waiting  for  the  hour  when  they  might  strike  down  a 
tyrant. 

'  Come  in,  come  in,'  cried  the  old  man.  He  was 
radiant  with  delight.  'My  work  is  perfect.  I  can 
show  her  now  with  pride.  Never  shall  painter,  brushes, 
colours,  light,  and  canvas  produce  a  rival  for  Catherine 
Lescault^  the  beautiful  courtesan  !  ' 

Porbus  and  Poussin,  burning  vi^ith  eager  curiosity, 
hurried  into  a  vast  studio.  Everything  was  in  disorder 
and  covered  with  dust,  but  they  saw  a  few  pictures  here 
and  there  upon  the  wall.  They  stopped  first  of  all  in 
admiration  before  the  life-sized  figure  of  a  woman  partially 
draped. 

*  Oh  !  never  mind  that,'  said  Frenhofer  j  *  that  is  a 
rough  daub  that  I  made,  a  study,  a  pose,  it  is  nothing. 
These  are  my  failures,'  he  went  on,  indicating  the 
enchanting  compositions  upon  the  walls  of  the  studio. 

This  scorn  for  such  works  of  art  struck  Porbus  and 
Poussin  dumb  with  amazement.  They  looked  round 
for  the  picture  of  which  he  had  spoken,  and  could  not 
discover  it. 

'  Look  here  !  '  said  the  old  man.  His  hair  was  dis- 
ordered, his  face  aglow  with  a  more  than  human 
exaltation,  his  eyes  glittered,  he  breathed  hard  like  a 
young  lover  fi^enzied  by  love. 

'  Aha  !  '  he  cried,  '  you  did  not  expect  to  see  such 
perfection  !  You  are  looking  for  a  picture,  and  you  see 
a  woman  before  you.  There  is  such  depth  in  that 
canvas,  the  atmosphere  is  so  true  that  you  cannot  dis- 
tinguish  it  from  the  air  that  surrounds  us.     Where  is 


The  Unknown   Masterpiece  29 

art  ?  Art  has  vanished,  it  is  invisible  !  It  is  the  form 
of  a  living  girl  that  you  see  before  you.  Have  I  not 
caught  the  very  hues  of  life,  the  spirit  of  the  living  line  that 
defines  the  figure.  Is  there  not  the  effect  produced  there 
like  that  which  all  natural  objects  present  in  the  atmo- 
sphere about  them,  or  fishes  in  the  water  ?  Do  you  see  how 
the  figure  stands  out  against  the  background  ?  Does  it 
not  seem  to  you  that  you  could  pass  your  hand  along  the 
back  ?  But  then  for  seven  years  I  studied  and  watched 
how  the  daylight  blends  with  the  objects  on  which  it  falls. 
And  the  hair,  the  light  pours  over  it  like  a  flood,  does  it 
not  ?  .  .  .  Ah  !  she  breathed,  I  am  sure  that  she  breathed  ! 
Her  breast — ah,  see  !  Who  would  not  fall  on  his  knees 
before  her  ?  Her  pulses  throb.  She  will  rise  to  her 
feet.     Wait  !  ' 

*  Do  you  see  anything  ?  '  Poussin  asked  of  Porbus. 

*  No  ...  do  you  ?  ' 

*  I  see  nothing.' 

The  two  painters  left  the  old  man  to  his  ecstasy,  and 
tried  to  ascertain  whether  the  light  that  fell  full  upon 
the  canvas  had  in  some  way  neutrafised  all  the  effect  for 
them.  They  moved  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  picture  j 
then  they  came  in  front,  bending  down  and  standing 
upright  by  turns. 

*  Yes,  yes,  it  is  really  canvas,'  said  Frenhofer,  who 
mistook  the  nature  of  this  minute  investigation. 

'  Look  !  the  canvas  is  on  a  stretcher,  here  is  the  easel  j 
indeed,  here  are  my  colours,  my  brushes,'  and  he  took  up 
a  brush  and  held  it  out  to  them,  all  unsuspicious  of  their 
thought. 

*  The  old  lansquenet  is  laughing  at  us,'  said  Poussin, 
coming  once  more  towards  the  supposed  picture.  'I 
can  see  nothing  there  but  confused  masses  of  colour 
and  a  multitude  of  fantastical  lines  that  go  to  make  a 
dead  wall  of  paint.' 

'  We  are  mistaken,  look  !  '  said  Porbus. 

In  a  corner  of  the  canvas  as  they  came  nearer,  they 


3©  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

distinguished  a  bare  foot  emerging  from  the  chaos  of 
colour,  half-tints  and  vague  shadows  that  made  up  a  dim 
formless  fog.  Its  living  delicate  beauty  held  them  spell- 
bound. This  fragment  that  had  escaped  an  incompre- 
hensible, slow,  and  gradual  destruction  seemed  to  them 
like  the  Parian  marble  torso  of  some  Venus  emerging 
from  the  ashes  of  a  ruined  town. 

'  There  is  a  woman  beneath,'  exclaimed  Porbus,  calling 
Poussin's  attention  to  the  coats  of  paint  with  which  the 
old  artist  had  overlaid  and  concealed  his  work  in  the 
quest  of  perfection. 

Both  artists  turned  involuntarily  to  Frenhofer.  They 
began  to  have  some  understanding,  vague  though  it  was, 
of  the  ecstasy  in  which  he  lived. 

*  He  believes  it  in  all  good  faith,'  said  Porbus. 

*Yes,  my  friend,'  said  the  old  man,  rousing  himself 
from  his  dreams,  'it  needs  faith,  faith  in  art,  and  you 
must  live  for  long  with  your  work  to  produce  such  a 
creation.  What  toil  some  of  those  shadows  have  cost 
me.  Look  !  there  is  a  faint  shadow  there  upon  the 
cheek  beneath  the  eyes — if  you  saw  that  on  a  human 
face,  it  would  seem  to  you  that  you  could  never  render  it 
with  paint.  Do  you  think  that  that  effect  has  not  cost 
unheard-of  toil  ? 

'  But  not  only  so,  dear  Porbus.  Look  closely  at  my 
work,  and  you  will  understand  more  clearly  what  I  was 
saying  as  to  methods  of  modelling  and  outline.  Look  at 
the  high  lights  on  the  bosom,  and  see  how  by  touch  on 
touch,  thickly  laid  on,  I  have  raised  the  surface  so  that 
it  catches  the  light  itself  and  blends  it  with  the  lustrous 
whiteness  of  the  high  lights,  and  how  by  an  opposite 
process,  by  flattening  the  surface  of  the  paint,  and  leaving 
no  trace  of  the  passage  of  the  brush,  I  have  succeeded  in 
softening  the  contours  of  my  figure  and  enveloping 
them  in  half-tints  until  the  very  idea  of  drawing,  of  the 
means  by  which  the  effect  is  produced,  fades  away, 
and  the  picture  has  the  roundness  and  relief  of  nature. 


The  Unknown  Masterpiece  31 

Come  closer.  You  will  see  the  manner  of  working 
better  ;  at  a  little  distance  it  cannot  be  seen.  There  ! 
Just  there,  it  is,  I  think,  very  plainly  to  be  seen,'  and 
with  the  tip  of  his  brush  he  pointed  out  a  patch  of 
transparent  colour  to  the  two  painters. 

Porbus,  laying  a  hand  on  the  old  artist's  shoulder, 
turned  to  Poussin  with  a  '  Do  you  know  that  in  him  we 
see  a  very  great  painter  ?  ' 

'  He  is  even  more  of  a  poet  than  a  painter,'  Poussin 
answered  gravely. 

'  There,'  Porbus  continued,  as  he  touched  the  canvas, 
'  lies  the  utmost  limit  of  our  art  on  earth.' 

*  Beyond  that  point  it  loses  itself  in  the  skies,'  said 
Poussin. 

'  What  joys  lie  there  on  that  piece  of  canvas  !  ' 
exclaimed  Porbus. 

The  old  man,  deep  in  his  own  musings,  smiled  at  the 
woman  he  alone  beheld,  and  did  not  hear. 

'But  sooner  or  later  he  will  find  out  that  there  is 
nothing  there  !  '  cried  Poussin. 

'  Nothing  on  my  canvas  !  '  said  Frenhofer,  looking  in 
turn  at  either  painter  and  at  his  picture. 

'  What  have  you  done  ?  '  muttered  Porbus,  turning  to 
Poussin. 

The  old  man  clutched  the  young  painter's  arm  and 
said, 'Do  you  see  nothing?  clod  pate  !  Huguenot!  var- 
let  !  cullion  !  What  brought  you  here  into  my  studio  ? 
— My  good  Porbus,'  he  went  on,  as  he  turned  to  the 
painter,  '  are  you  also  making  a  fool  of  me  ?  Answer  ! 
I  am  your  friend.  Tell  me,  have  I  ruined  my  picture 
after  all  ?  ' 

Porbus  hesitated  and  said  nothing,  but  there  was 
such  intolerable  anxiety  in  the  old  man's  white  face  that 
he  pointed  to  the  easel. 

'Look  !  '  he  said. 

Frenhofer  looked  for  a  moment  at  his  picture,  and 
staggered  back. 


32  The  Unknown  Masterpiece 

*  Nothing  !  nothing  !  After  ten  years  of  work  .  .  .' 
He  sat  down  and  wept. 

'  So  I  am  a  dotard,  a  madman,  I  have  neither  talent 
nor  power  !  I  am  only  a  rich  man,  who  works  for  his 
own  pleasure,  and  makes  no  progress.  I  have  done 
nothing  after  all  !  ' 

He  looked  through  his  tears  at  his  picture.  Suddenly 
he  rose  and  stood  proudly  before  the  two  painters. 

'  By  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ,'  he  cried  with 
flashing  eyes,  'you  are  jealous  !  You  would  have  me 
think  that  my  picture  is  a  failure  because  you  want  to 
steal  her  from  me  !  Ah  !  I  see  her,  I  see  her,'  he  cried, 
*she  is  marvellously  beautiful  .  .  .' 

At  that  moment  Poussin  heard  the  sound  of  weeping  j 
Gillette  was  crouching  forgotten  in  a  corner.  All  at 
once  the  painter  once  more  became  the  lover.  *  What 
is  it,  my  angel  ?  '  he  asked  her. 

*  Kill  me  !  '  she  sobbed.  '  I  must  be  a  vile  thing  if  I 
love  you  still,  for  I  despise  you.  ...  I  admire  you,  and 
I  loathe  you  !  I  love  you,  and  I  feel  that  I  hate  you 
even  now.' 

While  Gillette's  words  sounded  in  Poussin's  ears, 
Frenhofer  drew  a  green  serge  covering  over  his  Catherine 
with  the  sober  deliberation  of  a  jeweller  who  locks  his 
drawers  when  he  suspects  his  visitors  to  be  expert  thieves. 
He  gave  the  two  painters  a  profoundly  astute  glance 
that  expressed  to  the  full  his  suspicions  and  his  contempt 
for  them,  saw  them  out  of  his  studio  with  impetuous 
haste  and  in  silence,  until  from  the  threshold  of  his 
house  he  bade  them  '  Good-bye,  my  young  friends  !  ' 

That  farewell  struck  a  chill  of  dread  into  the  two 
painters.  Porbus,  in  anxiety,  went  again  on  the  morrow 
to  see  Frenhofer,  and  learned  that  he  had  died  in  the 
night  after  burning  his  canvases. 

Paris,  February  1832. 


CHRIST   IN   FLANDERS 

To  Marcelline  Deshordes-Valmore^  a  daughter  of 
Flanders^  of  whom  thesi  modern  days  may  well  be 
proud^  I  dedicate  this  quaint  legend  of  old  Flanders. 

De  Balzac. 

At  a  dirriiy  remote  period  in  the  history  of  Brabant, 
communication  between  the  Island  of  Cadzand  and  the 
Flemish  coast  was  kept  up  by  a  boat  which  carried 
passengers  from  one  shore  to  the  other.  Middelburg, 
the  chief  town  in  the  island,  destined  to  become  so 
famous  in  the  annals  of  Protestantism,  at  that  time  only 
numbered  some  two  or  three  hundred  hearths  j  and  the 
prosperous  town  of  Ostend  was  an  obscure  haven,  a 
straggling  village  where  pirates  dwelt  in  security  among 
the  fishermen  and  the  few  poor  merchants  who  lived  in 
the  place. 

But  though  the  town  of  Ostend  consisted  altogether 
of  some  score  of  houses  and  three  hundred  cottages,  huts 
or  hovels  built  of  the  driftwood  of  wrecked  vessels,  it 
nevertheless  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of  a  governor,  a 
garrison,  a  forked  gibbet,  a  convent,  and  a  burgomaster, 
in  short,  in  all  the  institutions  of  an  advanced  civilisation. 

Who  reigned  over  Brabant  and  Flanders  in  those  days  ? 
On  this  point  tradition  is  mute.  Let  us  confess  at  once 
that  this  tale  savours  strongly  of  the  marvellous,  the 
mysterious,  and  the  vague  ;  elements  which  Flemish 
narrators  have  infused  into  a  story  retailed  so  often  to 
gatherings  of  workers  on  winter  evenings,  that  the 
versions  vary  widely  in  poetic  merit  and  incongruity  of 

c 


34  Christ  in  Flanders 

detail.  It  has  been  told  by  every  generation,  handed 
down  by  grandames  at  the  fireside,  narrated  night  and 
day,  and  the  chronicle  has  changed  its  complexion  some- 
what in  every  age.  Like  some  great  building  that  has 
suffered  many  modifications  of  successive  generations  of 
architects,  some  sombre  weather-beaten  pile,  the  delight 
of  a  poet,  the  story  would  drive  the  commentator 
and  the  industrious  winnower  of  words,  facts,  and  dates 
to  despair.  The  narrator  believes  in  it,  as  all  superstitious 
minds  in  Flanders  likewise  believe  ;  and  is  not  a  whit 
wiser  nor  more  credulous  than  his  audience.  But  as  it 
would  be  impossible  to  make  a  harmony  of  all  the 
different  renderings,  here  are  the  outlines  of  the  story  j 
stripped,  it  may  be,  of  its  picturesque  quaintness,  but  with 
all  its  bold  disregard  of  historical  truth,  and  its  moral 
teaching  approved  by  religion — a  myth,  the  blossom  of 
imaginative  fancy  ;  an  allegory  that  the  wise  may  in- 
terpret to  suit  themselves.  To  each  his  own  pasturage, 
and  the  task  of  separating  the  tares  from  the  wheat. 

The  boat  that  served  to  carry  passengers  from  the 
Island  of  Cadzand  to  Ostend  was  upon  the  point  of 
departure  ;  but  before  the  skipper  loosed  the  chain  that 
secured  the  shallop  to  the  little  jetty,  where  people 
embarked,  he  blew  a  horn  several  times,  to  warn  late 
lingerers,  this  being  his  last  journey  that  day.  Night 
was  falling.  It  -was  scarcely  possible  to  see  the  coast  of 
Flanders  by  the  dying  fires  of  the  sunset,  or  to  make  out 
upon  the  hither  shore  any  forms  of  belated  passengers 
hurrying  along  the  wall  of  the  dykes  that  surrounded  the 
open  country,  or  among  the  tall  reeds  of  the  marshes. 
The  boat  was  full. 

*  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  Let  us  put  off  !  '  they 
cried. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  man  appeared  a  few  paces  from 
the  jetty,  to  the  surprise  of  the  skipper,  who  had  heard 
no  sound   of  footsteps.      The  traveller  seemed  to  have 


Christ  in  Flanders  35 

sprung  up  from  the  earth,  like  a  peasant  who  had  laid 
himself  down  on  the  ground  to  wait  till  the  boat  should 
start,  and  had  slept  till  the  sound  of  the  horn  awakened 
him.  Was  he  a  thief?  or  some  one  belonging  to  the 
custom-house  or  the  police  ? 

As  soon  as  the  man  appeared  on  the  jetty  to  which 
the  boat  was  moored,  seven  persons  who  were  standing 
in  the  stern  of  the  shallop  hastened  to  sit  down  on  the 
benches,  so  as  to  leave  no  room  for  the  new-comer.  It 
was  the  swift  and  instinctive  working  of  the  aristocratic 
spirit,  an  impulse  of  exclusiveness  that  comes  from  the 
rich  man's  heart.  Four  of  the  seven  personages  belonged 
to  the  most  aristocratic  families  in  Flanders.  First 
among  them  was  a  young  knight  with  two  beautiful 
greyhounds  ;  his  long  hair  flowed  from  beneath  a  jewelled 
cap  ;  he  clanked  his  gilded  spurs,  curled  the  ends  of  his 
moustache  from  time  to  time  with  a  swaggering  grace, 
and  looked  round  disdainfully  on  the  rest  of  the  crew. 
A  high-born  damsel,  with  a  falcon  on  her  wrist,  only 
spoke  with  her  mother  or  with  a  churchman  of  high 
rank,  who  was  evidently  a  relation.  All  these  persons 
made  a  great  deal  of  noise,  and  talked  among  themselves 
as  though  there  were  no  one  else  in  the  boat  ;  yet  close 
beside  them  sat  a  man  of  great  importance  in  the  district, 
a  stout  burgher  of  Bruges,  wrapped  about  with  a  vast 
cloak.  His  servant,  armed  to  the  teeth,  had  set  down  a 
couple  of  bags  filled  with  gold  at  his  side.  Next  to  the 
burgher  came  a  man  of  learning,  a  doctor  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Louvain,  who  was  travelling  with  his  clerk.  This 
little  group  of  folk,  who  looked  contemptuously  at  each 
other,  was  separated  from  the  passengers  in  the  forward 
part  of  the  boat  by  the  bench  of  rowers. 

The  belated  traveller  glanced  about  him  as  he  stepped 
on  board,  saw  that  there  was  no  room  for  him  in  the 
stern,  and  went  to  the  bows  in  quest  of  a  seat.  They 
were  all  poor  people  there.  At  first  sight  of  the  bare- 
headed man  in  the  brown  camlet  coat  and  trunk-hose, 


^6  Christ  in  Flanders 

and  plain  stiff  linen  collar,  they  noticed  that  he  wore 
no  ornaments,  carried  no  cap  nor  bonnet  in  his  hand, 
and  had  neither  sword  nor  purse  at  his  girdle,  and  one 
and  all  took  him  for  a  burgomaster  sure  of  his  autho- 
rity, a  worthy  and  kindly  burgomaster  like  so  many 
a  Fleming  of  old  times,  whose  homely  features  and 
characters  have  been  immortalised  by  Flemish  painters. 
The  poorer  passengers,  therefore,  received  him  with 
demonstrations  of  respect  that  provoked  scornful  titter- 
ing at  the  other  end  of  the  boat.  An  old  soldier,  inured 
to  toil  and  hardship,  gave  up  his  place  on  the  bench  to 
the  new-comer,  and  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the 
vessel,  keeping  his  balance  by  planting  his  feet  against 
one  of  those  transverse  beams,  like  the  backbone  of  a 
fish,  that  hold  the  planks  of  a  boat  together.  A  young 
mother,  who  bore  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  working  class  in  Ostend,  moved  aside  to 
make  room  for  the  stranger.  There  was  neither  servility 
nor  scorn  in  her  manner  of  doing  this  ;  it  was  a  simple 
sign  of  the  goodwill  by  which  the  poor,  who  know  by 
long  experience  the  value  of  a  service  and  the  warmth 
that  fellowship  brings,  give  expression  to  the  openhearted- 
ness  and  the  natural  impulses  of  their  souls  ;  so  artlessly  do 
they  reveal  their  good  qualities  and  their  defects.  The 
stranger  thanked  her  by  a  gesture  full  of  gracious  dignity, 
and  took  his  place  between  the  young  mother  and  the  old 
soldier.  Immediately  behind  him  sat  a  peasant  and  his 
son,  a  boy  ten  years  of  age.  A  beggar  woman,  old, 
wrinkled,  and  clad  in  rags,  was  crouching,  with  her 
almost  empty  wallet,  on  a  great  coil  of  rope  that  lay  in 
the  prow.  One  of  the  rowers,  an  old  sailor,  who  had 
known  her  in  th^  days  of  her  beauty  and  prosperity,  had 
let  her  come  in  '  for  the  love  of  God,'  in  the  beautiful 
phrase  that  the  common  people  use. 

*  Thank  you  kindly,  Thomas,'  the  old  woman  had  said. 
*  I  will  say  two  Paters  and  two  Jves  for  you  in  my 
prayers  to-night.' 


Christ  in  Flanders  37 

The  skipper  blew  his  horn  for  the  last  time,  looked 
along  the  silent  shore,  flung  ofF  the  chain,  ran  along 
the  side  of  the  boat,  and  took  up  his  position  at  the 
helm.  He  looked  at  the  sky,  and  as  soon  as  they 
were  out  in  the  open  sea,  he  shouted  to  the  men  :  *  Pull 
away,  pull  with  all  your  might  !  The  sea  is  smiling 
at  a  squall,  the  witch  !  I  can  feel  the  swell  by 
the  way  the  rudder  works,  and  the  storm  in  my 
wounds.' 

The  nautical  phrases,  unintelligible  to  ears  unused  to 
the  sound  of  the  sea,  seemed  to  put  fresh  energy  into  the 
oars  ;  they  kept  time  together,  the  rhythm  of  the  move- 
ment was  still  even  and  steady,  but  quite  unlike  the 
previous  manner  of  rowing  ;  it  was  as  if  a  cantering 
horse  had  broken  into  a  gallop.  The  gay  company 
seated  in  the  stern  amused  themselves  by  watching  the 
brawny  arms,  the  tanned  faces,  and  sparkling  eyes  of 
the  rowers,  the  play  of  the  tense  muscles,  the  physical 
and  mental  forces  that  were  being  exerted  to  bring  them 
for  a  trifling  toll  across  the  channel.  So  far  from  pitying 
the  rowers'  distress,  they  pointed  out  the  men's  faces  to 
each  other,  and  laughed  at  the  grotesque  expressions  on 
the  faces  of  the  crew  who  were  straining  every  muscle  ; 
but  in  the  fore  part  of  the  boat  the  soldier,  the  peasant, 
and  the  old  beggar  woman  watched  the  sailors  with  the 
sympathy  naturally  felt  by  toilers  who  live  by  the  sweat 
of  their  brow  and  know  the  rough  struggle,  the  strenuous 
excitement  of  effort.  These  folk,  moreover,  whose  lives 
were  spent  in  the  open  air,  had  all  seen  the  warnings  of 
danger  in  the  sky,  and  their  faces  were  grave.  The 
young  mother  rocked  her  child,  singing  an  old  hymn  of 
the  Church  for  a  lullaby. 

*  If  we  ever  get  there  at  all,'  the  soldier  remarked  to 
the  peasant,  '  it  will  be  because  the  Almighty  is  bent  on 
keeping  us  alive.' 

'  Ah  !  He  is  the  Master,'  said  the  old  woman,  '  but  I 
think  it  will  be  His  good  pleasure  to  take  us  to  Himself. 


38  Christ  in  Flanders 

Just  look  at  that  light  down  there  .  .  .'  and  she  nodded 
her  head  as  she  spoke  towards  the  sunset. 

Streaks  of  fiery  red  glared  from  behind  the  masses  of 
crimson-flushed  brown  cloud  that  seemed  about  to  un- 
loose a  furious  gale.  There  was  a  smothered  murmur  of 
the  sea,  a  moaning  sound  that  seemed  to  come  from  the 
depths,  a  low  warning  growl,  such  as  a  dog  gives  when 
he  only  means  mischief  as  yet.  After  all,  Ostend  was 
not  far  away.  Perhaps  painting,  like  poetry,  could  not 
prolong  the  existence  of  the  picture  presented  by  sea  and 
sky  at  that  moment  beyond  the  time  of  its  actual  dura- 
tion. Art  demands  vehement  contrasts,  wherefore  artists 
usually  seek  out  Nature's  most  striking  effects,  doubtless 
because  they  despair  of  rendering  the  great  and  glorious 
charm  of  her  daily  moods  ;  yet  the  human  soul  is  often 
stirred  as  deeply  by  her  calm  as  by  her  emotion,  and  by 
silence  as  by  storm. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke  on  board  the  boat.  Every 
one  watched  that  sea  and  sky,  either  with  some  presenti- 
ment of  danger,  or  because  they  felt  the  influence  of  the 
religious  melancholy  that  takes  possession  of  nearly  all  of 
us  at  the  close  of  the  day,  the  hour  of  prayer,  when  all 
nature  is  hushed  save  for  the  voices  of  the  bells.  The 
sea  gleamed  pale  and  wan,  but  its  hues  changed,  and  the 
surface  took  all  the  colours  of  steel.  The  sky  was  almost 
overspread  with  livid  grey,  but  down  in  the  west  there 
were  long  narrow  bars  like  streaks  of  blood  ;  while  lines 
of  bright  light  in  the  eastern  sky,  sharp  and  clean  as  if 
drawn  by  the  tip  of  a  brush,  were  separated  by  folds  of 
cloud,  like  the  wrinkles  on  an  old  man's  brow.  The 
whole  scene  made  a  background  of  ashen  greys  and  half- 
tints,  in  strong  contrast  to  the  bale-fires  of  the  sunset. 
If  written  language  might  borrow  of  spoken  language 
some  of  the  bold  figures  of  speech  invented  by  the  people, 
il  might  be  said  with  the  soldier  that  *  the  weather  had 
been  routed,'  or,  as  the  peasant  would  say,  *  the  sky 
glowered  like  an  executioner.'     Suddenly  a  wind  arose 


Christ  in  FJanders  ^9 

from  the  quarter  of  the  sunset,  and  the  skipper,  who 
never  took  his  eyes  off  the  sea,  saw  the  swell  on  the 
horizon  line,  and  cried — 

'  Stop  rowing  !  ' 

The  sailors  stopped  immediately,  and  let  their  oars  lie 
on  the  water. 

'  The  skipper  is  right,'  said  Thomas  coolly.  A  great 
wave  caught  up  the  boat,  carried  it  high  on  its  crest, 
only  to  plunge  it,  as  it  were,  into  the  trough  of  the  sea 
that  seemed  to  yawn  for  them.  At  this  mighty  upheaval, 
this  sudden  outbreak  of  the  wrath  of  the  sea,  the  company 
in  the  stern  turned  pale,  and  sent  up  a  terrible  cry, 

'  We  are  lost  !  ' 

'  Oh,  not  yet  !  '  said  the  skipper  calmly. 

As  he  spoke,  the  clouds  immediately  above  their  heads 
were  torn  asunder  by  the  vehemence  of  the  wind.  The 
grey  mass  was  rent  and  scattered  east  and  west  with 
ominous  speed,  a  dim  uncertain  light  from  the  rift  in 
the  sky  fell  full  upon  the  boat,  and  the  travellers  beheld 
each  other's  faces.  All  of  them,  the  noble  and  the  wealthy, 
the  sailors  and  the  poor  passengers  alike,  were  amazed 
for  a  moment  by  the  appearance  of  the  last  comer.  His 
golden  hair,  parted  upon  his  calm,  serene  forehead,  fell 
in  thick  curls  about  his  shoulders  ;  and  his  face,  sublime 
in  its  sweetness  and  radiant  with  divine  love,  stood  out 
against  the  surrounding  gloom.  He  had  no  contempt  for 
death  ;  he  knew  that  he  should  not  die.  But  if  at  the 
first  the  company  in  the  stern  forgot  for  a  moment  the 
implacable  fury  of  the  storm  that  threatened  their  lives, 
selfishness  and  their  habits  of  life  soon  prevailed  again. 

'  How  lucky  that  stupid  burgomaster  is,  not  to  see  the 
risks  we  are  all  running  !  He  is  just  like  a  dog,  he  will 
die  without  a  struggle,'  said  the  doctor. 

He  had  scarcely  pronounced  this  highly  judicious 
dictum  when  the  storm  unloosed  all  its  legions.  The 
wind  blew  from  every  quarter  of  the  heavens,  the  boat 
span  round  Hke  a  top,  and  the  sea  broke  in. 


40  Christ  in  Flanders 

'  Oh  !  my  poor  child  !  My  poor  child  !  .  .  .  Who 
will  save  my  baby  ?  '  the  mother  cried  in  a  heartrending 
voice, 

*  You  yourself  will  save  it,'  the  stranger  said. 

The  thrilling  tones  of  that  voice  went  to  the  young 
mother's  heart  and  brought  hope  with  them  ;  she  heard 
the  gracious  v^ords  through  all  the  whistling  of  the  wind 
and  the  shrieks  of  the  passengers. 

*  Holy  Virgin  of  Good  Help,  who  art  at  Antwerp,  I 
promise  thee  a  thousand  pounds  of  wax  and  a  statue,  if 
thou  v^^ilt  rescue  me  from  this!'  cried  the  burgher,  kneel- 
ing upon  his  bags  of  gold. 

'  The  Virgin  is  no  more  at  Antwerp  than  she  is  here,' 
was  the  doctor's  comment  on  this  appeal. 

'  She  is  in  heaven,'  said  a  voice  that  seemed  to  come 
from  the  sea.' 

*  Who  said  that  ?  ' 

'  'Tis  the  devil  !  '  exclaimed  the  servant.  *  He  is 
scoffing  at  the  Virgin  of  Antwerp.' 

'  Let  us  have  no  more  of  your  Holy  Virgin  at  present,' 
the  skipper  cried  to  the  passengers.  *  Put  your  hands  to 
the  scoops  and  bale  the  water  out  of  the  boat. — And  the 
rest  of  you,'  he  w^ent  on,  addressing  the  sailors,  *  pull 
with  all  your  might  !  Now  is  the  time  ;  in  the  name  of 
the  devil  who  is  leaving  you  in  this  world,  be  your  own 
Providence  !  Every  one  knows  that  the  channel  is  fear- 
fully dangerous  ;  I  have  been  to  and  fro  across  it  these 
thirty  years.  Am  I  facing  a  storm  for  the  first  time 
to-night  ?  ' 

He  stood  at  the  helm,  and  looked,  as  before,  at  his  boat 
and  at  the  sea  and  sky  in  turn. 

*  The  skipper  always  laughs  at  everything,'  muttered 
Thomas. 

'  Will  God  leave  us  to  perish  along  with  those  wretched 
creatures  ?  '  asked  the  haughty  damsel  of  the  handsome 
cavalier. 

*  No,  no,  noble  maiden.  .  .  .  Listen  !  '  and  he  caught 


Christ  in  Flanders  41 

her  by  the  waist  and  said  in  her  ear,  *  I  can  swim  ;  say 
nothing  about  it  !  I  will  hold  you  by  your  fair  hair  and 
bring  you  safely  to  the  shore  ;  but  I  can  only  save  you.' 

The  girl  looked  at  her  aged  mother.  The  lady  was 
on  her  knees  entreating  absolution  of  the  Bishop,  who  did 
not  heed  her.  In  the  beautiful  eyes  the  knight  read  a 
vague  feeling  of  filial  piety,  and  spoke  in  a  smothered 
voice. 

'  Submit  yourself  to  the  will  of  God.  If  it  is  His 
pleasure  to  take  your  mother  to  Himself,  it  will  doubtless 
be  for  her  happiness — in  the  other  world,'  he  added,  and 
his  voice  dropped  still  lower.  '  And  for  ours  in  this,'  he 
thought  within  himself. 

The  Dame  of  Rupelmonde  was  lady  of  seven  fiefs 
beside  the  barony  of  Gavres. 

The  girl  felt  the  longing  for  life  in  her  heart,  and  for 
love  that  spoke  through  the  handsome  adventurer,  a 
young  miscreant  who  haunted  churches  in  search  of  a 
prize,  an  heiress  to  marry,  or  ready  money.  The  Bishop 
bestowed  his  benison  on  the  waves,  and  bade  them 
be  calm  ;  it  was  all  that  he  could  do.  He  thought  of 
his  concubine,  and  of  the  delicate  feast  with  which  she 
would  welcome  him  ;  perhaps  at  that  very  moment  she 
was  bathing,  perfuming  herself,  robing  herself  in  velvet, 
fastening  her  necklace  and  her  jewelled  clasps,  and  the 
perverse  Bishop  so  far  from  thinking  of  the  power  of 
Holy  Church,  of  his  duty  to  comfort  Christians  and 
exhort  them  to  trust  in  God,  that  worldly  regrets  and 
lover's  sighs  mingled  with  the  holy  words  of  the  breviary. 
By  the  dim  light  that  shone  on  the  pale  faces  of  the 
company,  it  was  possible  to  see  their  differing  expres- 
sions as  the  boat  was  lifted  high  in  air  by  a  wave,  to  be 
cast  back  into  the  dark  depths;  the  shallop  quivered  like 
a  fragile  leaf,  the  plaything  of  the  north  wind  in  the 
autumn;  the  hull  creaked,  it  seemed  ready  to  go  to  pieces. 
Fearful  shrieks  went  up,  followed  by  an  awful  silence. 

There  was  a  strange  difference  between  the  behaviour 


42  Christ  in  Flanders 

of  the  folk  in  the  bows  and  that  of  the  rich  or  great 
people  at  the  other  end  of  the  boat.  The  young  mother 
clasped  her  infant  tightly  to  her  breast  every  time  that  a 
great  wave  threatened  to  engulf  the  fragile  vessel  ;  but 
she  clung  to  the  hope  that  the  stranger's  words  had  set  in 
her  heart.  Each  time  that  her  eyes  turned  to  his  face  she 
drew  fresh  faith  at  the  sight,  the  strong  faith  of  a  helpless 
woman,  a  mother's  faith.  She  lived  by  that  divine 
promise,  the  loving  words  from  his  lips  ;  the  simple  crea- 
ture waited  trustingly  for  them  to  be  fulfilled,  and  scarcely 
feared  the  danger  any  longer. 

The  soldier,  holding  fast  to  the  vessel's  side,  never  took 
his  eyes  off  the  strange  visitor.  He  copied  on  his  own 
rough  and  swarthy  features  the  imperturbability  of  the 
other's  face,  applying  to  this  task  the  whole  strength  of  a 
will  and  intelligence  but  little  corrupted  in  the  course  of 
a  life  of  mechanical  and  passive  obedience.  So  emulous 
was  he  of  a  calm  and  tranquil  courage  greater  than  his 
own,  that  at  last,  perhaps  unconsciously,  something  of  that 
mysterious  nature  passed  into  his  own  soul.  His  admira- 
tion became  an  instinctive  zeal  for  this  man,  a  boundless 
love  for  and  belief  in  him,  such  a  love  as  soldiers  feel  for 
their  leader  when  he  has  the  power  of  swaying  other  men, 
when  the  halo  of  victories  surrounds  him,  and  the  magical 
fascination  of  genius  is  felt  in  all  that  he  does.  The  poor 
outcast  was  murmuring  to  herself — 

'  Ah  !  miserable  wretch  that  I  am  !  Have  I  not 
suffered  enough  to  expiate  the  sins  of  my  youth  ?  Ah  ! 
wretched  woman,  why  did  you  lead  the  gay  life  of  a 
frivolous  Frenchwoman  ?  why  did  you  devour  the  goods 
of  God  with  churchmen,  the  substance  of  the  poor  with 
extortioners  and  fleecers  of  the  poor  ?  Oh  !  I  have 
sinned  indeed  ! — Oh  my  God  !  my  God  !  let  me  finish 
my  time  in  hell  here  in  this  world  of  misery.' 

And  again  she  cried,  '  Holy  Virgin,  Mother  of  God, 
have  pity  upon  me  !  ' 

'  Be   comforted,    mother.       God    is   not   a    Lombard 


Christ  in  Flanders  43 

usurer.  I  may  have  killed  people  good  and  bad  at  ran- 
dom in  my  time,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  resurrection.* 

'  Ah  !  master  lancepesade,  how  happy  those  fair  ladies 
are,  to  be  so  near  to  a  bishop,  a  holy  man  !  They  will 
get  absolution  for  their  sins,'  said  the  old  woman.  *  Oh  ! 
if  I  could  only  hear  a  priest  say  to  me,  "  Thy  sins  are 
forgiven  !  "     I  should  believe  it  then.' 

The  stranger  turned  towards  her,  and  the  goodness  in 
his  face  made  her  tremble. 

'  Have  faith,'  he  said,  '  and  you  will  be  saved.' 

*  May  God  reward  you,  good  sir,'  she  answered.  *  If 
what  you  say  is  true,  I  will  go  on  pilgrimage  bare- 
footed to  Our  Lady  of  Loretto  to  pray  to  her  for  you  and 
for  me.' 

The  two  peasants,  father  and  son,  were  silent,  patient,  and 
submissive  to  the  will  of  God,  like  folk  whose  wont  it  is 
to  fall  in  instinctively  with  the  ways  of  Nature  like  cattle. 
At  the  one  end  of  the  boat  stood  riches,  pride,  learning, 
debauchery,  and  crime — human  society,  such  as  art  and 
thought  and  education  and  worldly  interests  and  laws  have 
made  it  ;  and  at  this  end  there  was  terror  and  wailing, 
innumerable  different  impulses  all  repressed  by  hideous 
doubts — at  this  end,  and  at  this  only,  the  agony  of  fear. 

Above  all  these  human  lives  stood  a  strong  man,  the 
skipper  ;  no  doubts  assailed  him,  the  chief,  the  king,  the 
fatalist  among  them.  He  was  trusting  in  himself  rather 
than  in  Providence,  crying,  '  Bale  away  !  '  instead  of 
'  Holy  Virgin,'  defying  the  storm,  in  fact,  and  struggling 
with  the  sea  like  a  wrestler. 

But  the  helpless  poor  at  the  other  end  of  the  wherry  ! 
The  mother  rocking  on  her  bosom  the  little  one  who 
smiled  at  the  storm,  the  woman  once  so  frivolous  and 
gay,  and  now  tormented  with  bitter  remorse  ;  the  old 
soldier  covered  with  scars,  a  mutilated  life  the  sole 
reward  of  his  unflagging  loyalty  and  faithfulness.  This 
veteran  could  scarcely  count  on  the  morsel  of  bread 
soaked  in  tears  to  keep  the  life  in  him,  yet  he  was  always 


44  Christ  in  Flanders 

ready  to  laugh,  and  went  his  way  merrily,  happy  when 
he  could  drown  his  glory  in  the  depths  of  a  pot  of  beer, 
or  could  tell  tales  of  the  wars  to  the  children  who 
admired  him,  leaving  his  future  with  a  light  heart  in  the 
hands  of  God.  Lastly,  there  were  the  two  peasants,  used 
to  hardships  and  toil,  labour  incarnate,  the  labour  by 
which  the  world  lives.  These  simple  folk  were  indifferent 
to  thought  and  its  treasures,  ready  to  sink  them  all  in  a 
belief;  and  their  faith  was  but  so  much  the  more  vig- 
orous because  they  had  never  disputed  about  it  nor 
analysed  it.  Such  a  nature  is  a  virgin  soil,  conscience 
has  not  been  tampered  with,  feeling  is  deep  and  strong  ; 
repentance,  trouble,  love,  and  work  have  developed, 
purified,  concentrated,  and  increased  their  force  of  will  a 
hundred  times,  the  will — the  one  thing  in  man  that 
resembles  what  learned  doctors  call  the  Soul. 

The  boat,  guided  by  the  well-nigh  miraculous  skill  of 
the  steersman,  came  almost  within  sight  of  Ostend,  when, 
not  fifty  paces  from  the  shore,  she  was  suddenly  struck  by 
a  heavy  sea  and  capsized.  The  stranger  with  the  light 
about  his  head  spoke  to  this  little  world  of  drowning 
creatures — 

'  Those  who  have  faith  shall  be  saved  ;  let  them  follow 
me!' 

He  stood  upright,  and  walked  with  a  firm  step  upon 
the  waves.  The  young  mother  at  once  took  her  child 
in  her  arms,  and  followed  at  his  side  across  the  sea.  The 
soldier  too  sprang  up,  saying  in  his  homely  fashion,  '  Ah  ! 
nom  d  ^un  pipe  !  I  would  follow  you  to  the  devil  '  ;  and 
without  seeming  astonished  by  it,  he  walked  on  the 
water.  The  old  worn-out  sinner,  believing  in  the 
omnipotence  of  God,  also  followed  the  stranger. 

The  two  peasants  said  to  each  other,  '  If  they  are 
walking  on  the  sea,  why  should  we  not  do  as  they  do  ?  ' 
and  they  also  arose  and  hastened  after  the  others.  Thomas 
tried  to  follow,  but  his  faith  tottered  ;  he  sank  in  the  sea 
more  than  once,  and  rose  again,  but  the  third  time  he 


Christ  in  Flanders  45 

also  walked  on  the  sea.  The  bold  steersman  clung  like  a 
rémora  to  the  wreck  of  his  boat.  The  miser  had  had 
faith,  and  had  risen  to  go,  but  he  tried  to  take  his  gold 
with  him,  and  it  was  his  gold  that  dragged  him  down  to 
the  bottom.  The  learned  man  had  scoffed  at  the  char- 
latan and  at  the  fools  who  listened  to  him  ;  and  when  he 
heard  the  mysterious  stranger  propose  to  the  passengers 
that  they  should  walk  on  the  waves,  he  began  to  laugh, 
and  the  ocean  swallowed  him.  The  girl  was  dragged 
down  into  the  depths  by  her  lover.  The  Bishop  and  the 
older  lady  went  to  the  bottom,  heavily  laden  with  sins,  it 
may  be,  but  still  more  heavily  laden  with  incredulity  and 
confidence  in  idols,  weighted  down  by  devotion,  into  which 
alms-deeds  and  true  religion  entered  but  little. 

The  faithful  flock,  who  walked  with  a  firm  step  high 
and  dry  above  the  surge,  heard  all  about  them  the  dread- 
ful whistling  of  the  blast  ;  great  billows  broke  across 
their  path,  but  an  irresistible  force  cleft  a  way  for  them 
through  the  sea.  These  believing  ones  saw  through  the 
spray  a  dim  speck  of  light  flickering  in  the  window  of 
a  fisherman's  hut  on  the  shore,  and  each  one,  as  he 
pushed  on  bravely  towards  the  light,  seemed  to  hear  the 
voice  of  his  fellow  crying,  '  Courage  !  '  through  all  the 
roaring  of  the  surf;  yet  no  one  had  spoken  a  word — so 
absorbed  was  each  by  his  own  peril.  In  this  way  they 
reached  the  shore. 

When  they  were  all  seated  near  the  fisherman's  fire, 
they  looked  round  in  vain  for  their  guide  with  the  light 
about  him.  The  sea  washed  up  the  steersman  at  the 
base  of  the  cliff  on  which  the  cottage  stood  ;  he  was 
clinging  with  might  and  main  to  the  plank  as  a  sailor  can 
cling  when  death  stares  him  in  the  face  ;  the  Man  went 
down  and  rescued  the  almost  exhausted  seaman  ;  then  he 
said,  as  he  held  out  a  succouring  hand  above  the  man's 
head — 

'  Good,  for  this  once  ;  but  do  not  try  it  again  j  the 
example  would  be  too  bad.' 


46  Christ  in  Flanders 

He  took  the  skipper  on  his  shoulders,  and  carried  him 
to  the  fisherman's  door,  knocked  for  admittance  for  the 
exhausted  man  ;  then,  when  the  door  of  the  humble 
refuge  opened,  the  Saviour  disappeared. 

The  Convent  of  Mercy  was  built  for  sailors  on  this 
spot,  where  for  long  afterwards  (so  it  was  said)  the  foot- 
prints of  Jesus  Christ  could  be  seen  in  the  sand  ;  but  in 
1793,  at  the  time  of  the  French  invasion,  the  monks 
carried  away  this  precious  relic,  that  bore  witness  to  the 
Saviour's  last  visit  to  earth. 

There  at  the  convent  I  found  myself  shortly  after  the 
Revolution  of  1830.  I  was  weary  of  life.  If  you  had 
asked  me  the  reason  of  my  despair,  I  should  have  found 
it  almost  impossible  to  give  it,  so  languid  had  grown  the 
soul  that  was  melted  within  me.  The  west  wind  had 
slackened  the  springs  of  my  intelligence.  A  cold,  grey 
light  poured  down  from  the  heavens,  and  the  murky 
clouds  that  passed  overhead  gave  a  boding  look  to  the 
land  ;  all  these  things,  together  with  the  immensity  of 
the  sea,  said  to  me,  *  Die  to-day  or  die  to-morrow,  still 

must  we  not  die  ?  *      And  then .     I  wandered  on, 

musing  on  the  doubtful  future,  on  my  blighted  hopes. 
Gnawed  by  these  gloomy  thoughts,  I  turned  mechanically 
into  the  convent  church,  with  the  grey  towers  that 
loomed  like  ghosts  through  the  sea  mists.  I  looked 
round  with  no  kindling  of  the  imagination  at  the  forest 
of  columns,  àt  the  slender  arches  set  aloft  upon  the 
leafy  capitals,  a  delicate  labyrinth  of  sculpture.  I  walked 
with  careless  eyes  along  the  side  aisles  that  opened  out 
before  me  like  vast  portals,  ever  turning  upon  their 
hinges.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  see,  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  autumn  day,  the  sculptured  groinings  of  the  roof, 
the  delicate  and  clean-cut  lines  of  the  mouldings  of  the 
graceful  pointed  arches.  The  organ  pipes  were  mute. 
There  was  no  sound  save  the  noise  of  my  own  footsteps 
to   awaken    the    mournful   echoes   lurking    in   the  dark 


Christ  in  Flanders  47 

chapels.  I  sat  down  at  the  base  of  one  of  the  four 
pillars  that  supported  the  tower,  near  the  choir.  Thence 
I  could  see  the  whole  of  the  building.  I  gazed,  and  no 
ideas  connected  with  it  arose  in  my  mind.  I  saw  with- 
out seeing  the  mighty  maze  of  pillars,  the  great  rose 
windows  that  hung  like  a  network  suspended  as  by  a 
miracle  in  air  above  the  vast  doorways.  I  saw  the 
doors  at  the  end  of  the  side  aisles,  the  aerial  galleries,  the 
stained  glass  windows  framed  in  archways,  divided  by 
slender  columns,  fretted  into  flower  forms  and  trefoil  by 
fine  filigree  work  of  carved  stone.  A  dome  of  glass  at 
the  end  of  the  choir  sparkled  as  if  it  had  been  built  of 
precious  stones  set  cunningly.  In  contrast  to  the  roof 
with  its  alternating  spaces  of  whiteness  and  colour,  the 
two  aisles  lay  to  right  and  left  in  shadow  so  deep  that  the 
faint  grey  outlines  of  their  hundred  shafts  were  scarcely 
visible  in  the  gloom.  I  gazed  at  the  marvellous  arcades, 
the  scroll-work,  the  garlands,  the  curving  lines,  and  arab- 
esques interwoven  and  interlaced,  and  strangely  lighted, 
until  by  sheer  dint  of  gazing  my  perceptions  became  con- 
fused, and  I  stood  upon  the  borderland  between  illusion 
and  reality,  taken  in  the  snare  set  for  the  eyes,  and  almost 
light-headed  by  reason  of  the  multitudinous  changes  of 
the  shapes  about  me. 

Imperceptibly  a  mist  gathered  about  the  carven  stone- 
work, and  I  only  beheld  it  through  a  haze  of  fine  golden 
dust,  like  the  motes  that  hover  in  the  bars  of  sunHght 
slanting  through  the  air  of  a  chamber.  Suddenly  the 
stone  lacework  of  the  rose  windows  gleamed  through 
this  vapour  that  had  made  all  forms  so  shadowy.  Every 
moulding,  the  edges  of  every  carving,  the  least  detail  of 
the  sculpture  was  dipped  in  silver.  The  sunlight  kindled 
fires  in  the  stained  wmdows,  their  rich  colours  sent  out 
glowing  sparks  of  light.  The  shafts  began  to  tremble, 
the  capitals  were  gently  shaken.  A  light  shudder  as  of 
delight  ran  through  the  building,  the  stones  were  loosened 
in   their  setting,  the   wall-spaces  swayed  with  graceful 


48  Christ  in  Flanders 

caution.  Here  and  there  a  ponderous  pier  moved  as 
solemnly  as  a  dowager  when  she  condescends  to  complete 
a  quadrille  at  the  close  of  a  ball.  A  few  slender  and 
graceful  columns,  their  heads  adorned  with  wreaths  of 
trefoil,  began  to  laugh  and  dance  here  and  there.  Some 
of  the  pointed  arches  dashed  at  the  tall  lancet  windows, 
who,  like  ladies  of  the  Middle  Ages,  wore  the  armorial 
bearings  of  their  houses  emblazoned  on  their  golden 
robes.  The  dance  of  the  mitred  arcades  with  the  slender 
windows  became  like  a  fray  at  a  tourney. 

In  another  moment  every  stone  in  the  church  vibrated, 
without  leaving  its  place  ;  for  the  organ-pipes  spoke,  and 
I  heard  divine  music  mingling  with  the  songs  of  angels, 
an  unearthly  harmony,  accompanied  by  the  deep  notes  of 
the  bellsj  that  boomed  as  the  giant  towers  rocked  and 
swayed  on  their  square  bases.  This  strange  sabbath 
seemed  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  ;  and 
I,  who  had  seen  Charles  x.  hurled  from  his  throne,  was 
no  longer  amazed  by  anything.  Nay,  I  myself  was 
gently  swaying  with  a  see-saw  movement  that  influenced 
my  nerves  pleasurably  in  a  manner  of  which  it  is  impos- 
sible to  give  any  idea.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  this  heated 
riot,  the  cathedral  choir  felt  cold  as  if  it  were  a  winter 
day,  and  I  became  aware  of  a  multitude  of  women,  robed 
in  white,  silent,  and  impassive,  sitting  there.  The  sweet 
incense  smoke  that  arose  from  the  censers  was  grateful 
to  my  soul.  The  tall  wax  candles  flickered.  The 
lectern,  gay  as  a  chanter  undone  by  the  treachery  of 
wine,  was  skipping  about  like  a  peal  of  Chinese  bells. 

Then  I  knew  that  the  whole  cathedral  was  whirling 
round  so  fast  that  everything  appeared  to  be  undisturbed. 
The  colossal  Figure  on  the  crucifix  above  the  altar  smiled 
upon  me  with  a  mingled  malice  and  benevolence  that 
frightened  me  ;  I  turned  my  eyes  away,  and  marvelled 
at  the  bluish  vapour  that  slid  across  the  pillars,  lendmg 
to  them  an  indescribable  charm.  Then  some  graceful 
women's  forms  began  to  stir  on  the  friezes.    The  cherubs 


Christ  in  Flanders  49 

who  upheld  the  heavy  columns  shook  out  their  wings.  I 
felt  myself  uplifted  by  some  divine  power  that  steeped 
me  in  infinite  joy,  in  a  sweet  and  languid  rapture.  I 
would  have  given  my  life,  I  think,  to  have  prolonged 
these  phantasmagoria  for  a  little,  but  suddenly  a  shrill 
voice  clamoured  in  my  ears — 

'  Awake  and  follow  me  !  ' 

A  withered  woman  took  my  hand  in  hers  ;  its  icy  cold- 
ness crept  through  every  nerve.  The  bones  of  her  face 
showed  plainly  through  the  sallow,  almost  olive-tinted 
wrinkles  of  the  skin.  The  shrunken,  ice-cold,  old  woman 
wore  a  black  robe,  which  she  trailed  in  the  dust,  and 
at  her  throat  there  was  something  white,  which  I 
dared  not  examine.  I  could  scarcely  see  her  wan  and 
colourless  eyes,  for  they  were  fixed  in  a  stare  upon  the 
heavens.  She  drew  me  after  her  along  the  aisles,  leaving 
a  trace  of  her  presence  in  the  ashes  that  she  shook  from 
her  dress.  Her  bones  rattled  as  she  vi^alked,  like  the 
bones  of  a  skeleton  ;  and  as  we  went  I  heard  behind  me 
the  tinkling  of  a  little  bell,  a  thin,  sharp  sound  that  rang 
through  my  head  like  the  notes  of  a  harmonica. 

'  Suffer  !  '  she  cried,  '  suiFer  !     So  it  must  be  !  ' 

We  came  out  of  the  church  j  we  went  through  the 
dirtiest  streets  of  the  town,  till  we  came  at  last  to  a 
dingy  dwelling,  and  she  bade  me  enter  in.  She  dragged 
me  with  her,  calling  to  me  in  a  harsh,  tuneless  voice  like 
a  cracked  bell — 

'  Defend  me  !  defend  me  !  ' 

Together  we  went  up  a  winding  staircase.  She 
knocked  at  a  door  in  the  darkness,  and  a  mute,  like  some 
familiar  of  the  Inquisition,  opened  to  her.  In  another 
moment  we  stood  in  a  room  hung  with  ancient,  ragged 
tapestry,  amid  piles  of  old  linen,  crumpled  muslin,  and 
gilded  brass. 

*  Behold  the  wealth  that  shall  endure  for  ever  !  '  said 
she. 

I  shuddered  with  horror  j  for  just  then,  by  the  light  of 


50  Christ  in  Flanders 

à  tall  torch  and  two  altar  candles,  I  saw  distinctly  that 
this  woman  was  fresh  from  the  graveyard.  She  had  no 
hair.  I  turned  to  fly.  She  raised  her  fleshless  arm  and 
encircled  me  with  a  band  of  iron  set  with  spikes,  and  as 
she  raised  it  a  cry  went  up  all  about  us,  the  cry  of  milHons 
of  voices — the  shouting  of  the  dead  ! 

'It  is  my  purpose  to  make  thee  happy  for  ever,'  she 
said.     'Thou  art  my  son.' 

We  were  sitting  before  the  hearth,  the  ashes  lay  cold 
upon  it  ;  the  old  shrunken  woman  grasped  my  hand  so 
tightly  in  hers  that  1  could  not  choose  but  stay.  I  looked 
fixedly  at  her,  striving  to  read  the  story  of  her  life  from 
the  things  among  which  she  was  crouching.  Had  she 
indeed  any  life  in  her  ?  It  was  a  mystery.  Yet  I  saw 
plainly  that  once  she  must  have  been  young  and  beauti- 
ful ;  fair,  with  all  the  charm  of  simplicity,  perfect  as  some 
Greek  statue,  with  the  brow  of  a  vestal. 

'  Ah  !  ah  !  '  I  cried,  '  now  I  know  thee  !  Miserable 
woman,  why  hast  thou  prostituted  thyself  ?  In  the  age  of 
thy  passions,  in  the  time  of  thy  prosperity,  the  grace  and 
purity  of  thy  youth  were  forgotten.  Forgetful  of  thy 
heroic  devotion,  thy  pure  life,  thy  abundant  faith,  thou 
didst  resign  thy  primitive  power  and  thy  spiritual 
supremacy  for  fleshly  power.  Thy  Hnen  vestments,  thy 
couch  of  moss,  the  cell  in  the  rock,  bright  with  rays  of 
the  Light  Divine,  was  forsaken  ;  thou  hast  sparkled  with 
diamonds,  and  shone  with  the  glitter  of  luxury  and  pride. 
Then,  grown  bold  and  insolent,  seizing  and  overturning 
all  things  in  thy  course  like  a  courtesan  eager  for  pleasure 
in  her  days  of  splendour,  thou  hast  steeped  thyself  in 
blood  like  some  queen  stupefied  by  empery.  Dost  thou 
not  remember  to  have  been  dull  and  heavy  at  times,  and 
the  sudden  marvellous  lucidity  of  other  moments  ;  as 
when  Art  emerges  from  an  orgy  ?  Oh  !  poet,  painter, 
and  singer,  lover  of  splendid  ceremonies  and  protector  of 
the  arts,  was  thy  friendship  for  art  perchance  a  caprice, 
that  so  thou  shouldst  sleep  beneath  magnificent  canopies  ? 


Christ  in  Flanders  51 

Was  there  not  a  day  when,  in  thy  fantastic  pride,  though 
chastity  and  humility  were  prescribed  to  thee,  thou  hadst 
brought  all  things  beneath  thy  feet,  and  set  thy  foot  on 
the  necks  of  princes  ;  when  earthly  dominion,  and  wealth, 
and  the  mind  of  man  bore  thy  yoke  ?  Exulting  in  the 
abasement  of  humanity,  joying  to  witness  the  uttermost 
lengths  to  which  man's  folly  would  go,  thou  hast  bidden 
thy  lovers  walk  on  all  fours,  and  required  of  them  their 
lands  and  wealth,  nay,  even  their  wives  if  they  were 
worth  aught  to  thee.  Thou  hast  devoured  millions  of 
men  without  a  cause  ;  thou  hast  flung  away  lives  like 
sand  blown  by  the  wind  from  West  to  East.  Thou  hast 
come  down  from  the  heights  of  thought  to  sit  among  the 
kings  of  men.  Woman  !  instead  of  comforting  men, 
thou  hast  tormented  and  afflicted  them  !  Knowing  that 
thou  couldst  ask  and  have,  thou  hast  demanded — blood  ! 
A  little  flour  surely  should  have  contented  thee,  accus- 
tomed as  thou  hadst  been  to  live  on  bread  and  to  mingle 
water  with  thy  wine.  Unlike  all  others  in  all  things, 
formerly  thou  wouldst  bid  thy  lovers  fast,  and  they  obeyed. 
Why  should  thy  fancies  have  led  thee  to  require  things 
impossible  ?  Why,  like  a  courtesan  spoiled  by  her  lovers, 
hast  thou  doted  on  follies,  and  left  those  undeceived  who 
sought  to  explain  and  justify  all  thy  errors  ?  Then 
came  the  days  of  thy  later  passions,  terrible  like  the  love 
of  a  woman  of  forty  years,  with  a  fierce  cry  thou  hast 
sought  to  clasp  the  whole  universe  in  one  last  embrace — 
and  thy  universe  recoiled  from  thee  ! 

*  Then  old  men  succeeded  to  thy  young  lovers  ; 
decrepitude  came  to  thy  feet  and  made  thee  hideous. 
Yet,  even  then,  men  with  the  eagle  power  of  vision  said  to 
thee  in  a  glance,  "  Thou  shalt  perish  ingloriously,  because 
thou  hast  fallen  away,  because  thou  hast  broken  the  vows 
of  thy  maidenhood.  The  angel  with  peace  written  on 
her  forehead,  who  should  have  shed  light  and  joy  along 
her  path,  has  been  a  Messalina,  delighting  in  the  circus, 
in  debauchery,  and  abuse  of  power.     The  days  of  thy 


52  Christ  in  Flanders 

virginity  cannot  return  ;  henceforward  thou  shalt  be 
subject  to  a  master.  Thy  hour  has  come  ;  the  hand  of 
death  is  upon  thee.  Thy  heirs  believe  that  thou  art  rich  ; 
they  will  kill  thee  and  find  nothing.  Yet  try  at  least  to 
fling  away  this  raiment  no  longer  in  fashion  ;  be  once 
more  as  in  the  days  of  old  ! — Nay,  thou  art  dead,  and  by 
thy  own  deed  !  " 

*  Is  not  this  thy  story  ?  '  so  I  ended.  *  Decrepit, 
toothless,  shivering  crone,  now  forgotten,  going  thy  ways 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  from  passers-by  !  Why  art 
thou  still  alive  ?  What  doest  thou  in  that  beggar's  garb, 
uncomely  and  desired  of  none  ?  Where  are  thy  riches  ? 
— for  what  were  they  spent  ?  Where  are  thy  treasures  ? 
— what  great  deeds  hast  thou  done  ?  ' 

At  this  demand,  the  shrivelled  woman  raised  her  bony 
form,  flung  ofF  her  rags,  and  grew  tall  and  radiant,  smiling 
as  she  broke  forth  from  the  dark  chrysaHd  sheath.  Then 
like  a  butterfly,  this  diaphanous  creature  emerged,  fair  and 
youthful,  clothed  in  white  linen,  an  Indian  from  creation 
issuing  her  palms.  Her  golden  hair  rippled  over  her 
shoulders,  her  eyes  glowed,  a  bright  mist  clung  about  her, 
a  ring  of  gold  hovered  above  her  head,  she  shook  the 
flaming  blade  of  a  sword  towards  the  spaces  of  heaven. 

'  See  and  believe  !  '  she  cried. 

And  suddenly  I  saw,  afar  off,  many  thousands  of 
cathedrals  like  the  one  that  I  had  just  quitted  ;  but  these 
were  covered  with  pictures  and  with  frescoes,  and  I  heard 
them  echo  with  entrancing  music.  Myriads  of  human 
creatures  flocked  to  these  great  buildings,  swarming 
about  them  like  ants  on  an  ant-heap.  Some  were  eager 
to  rescue  books  from  oblivion  or  to  copy  manuscripts, 
others  were  helping  the  poor,  but  nearly  all  were  studying. 
Up  above  this  countless  multitude  rose  giant  statues  that 
they  had  erected  in  their  midst,  and  by  the  gleams  of  a 
strange  light  from  some  luminary  as  powerful  as  the  sun, 
I  read  the  inscriptions  on  the  bases  of  the  statues — 
Science,  History,  Literature. 


Christ  in  Flanders  ^^ 

The  light  died  out.  Again  I  faced  the  young  girl. 
Gradually  she  slipped  into  the  dreary  sheath,  into  the 
ragged  cere-cloths,  and  became  an  aged  woman  again. 
Her  familiar  brought  her  a  little  dust,  and  she  stirred  it 
into  the  ashes  of  her  chafing-dish,  for  the  weather  was 
cold  and  stormy  ;  and  then  he  lighted  for  her,  whose 
palaces  had  been  lit  with  thousands  of  wax-tapers,  a  little 
cresset,  that  she  might  see  to  read  her  prayers  through 
the  hours  of  night. 

'  There  is  no  faith  left  in  the  earth  !  .  .  .'  she  said. 

In  such  a  perilous  plight  did  I  behold  the  fairest  and 
the  greatest,  the  truest  and  most  life-giving  of  all  Powers. 

*Wake  up,  sir,  the  doors  are  just  about  to  be  shut,' 
said  a  hoarse  voice.  I  turned  and  beheld  the  beadle's 
ugly  countenance  ;  the  man  was  shaking  me  by  the  arm, 
and  the  cathedral  lay  wrapped  in  shadows  as  a  man  is 
wrapped  in  his  cloak. 

'Belief,'  I  said  to  myself,  Ms  Life!  I  have  just 
witnessed  the  funeral  of  a  monarchy,  now  we  must 
defend  the  Church,' 

Paris,  February  1831. 


MELMOTH    RECONCILED 

To  Monsieur  le  General  Baron  de  Pommereul,  a 
token  of  the  friendship  between  our  fathers^  which 
survives  in  their  sons. 

De  Balzac. 

There  is  a  special  variety  of  human  nature  obtained  in 
the  Social  Kingdom  by  a  process  analogous  to  that  of  the 
gardener's  craft  in  the  Vegetable  Kingdom,  to  wit,  by 
the  forcing-house — a  species  of  hybrid  which  can  be 
raised  neither  from  seed  nor  from  slips.  This  product 
is  known  as  the  Cashier,  an  anthropomorphous  growth, 
watered  by  religious  doctrine,  trained  up  in  fear  of  the 
guillotine,  pruned  by  vice,  to  flourish  on  a  third  floor 
with  an  estimable  wife  by  his  side  and  an  uninteresting 
family.  The  number  of  cashiers  in  Paris  must  always 
be  a  problem  for  the  physiologist.  Has  any  one  as  ytt 
been  able  to  state  correctly  the  terms  of  the  proportion 
sum  wherein  the  cashier  figures  as  the  unknown  *■  ? 
Where  will  you  find  the  man  who  shall  live  with  wealth, 
like  a  cat  with  a  caged  mouse  ?  This  man,  for  further 
qualification,  shall  be  capable  of  sitting  boxed  in  behind 
an  iron  grating  for  seven  or  eight  hours  a  day  during  seven- 
eighths  of  the  year,  perched  upon  a  cane-seated  chair  in  a 
space  as  narrow  as  a  lieutenant's  cabin  on  board  a  man- 
of-war.  Such  a  man  must  be  able  to  defy  anchylosis  of 
the  knee  and  thigh  joints  ;  he  must  have  a  soul  above 
meanness,  in  order  to  live  meanly  ;  must  lose  all  relish 
for  money  by  dint  of  handling  it.     Demand  this  peculiar 

64 


Meimoth  Reconciled  55 

specimen  of  any  creed,  educational  system,  school,  or 
institution  you  please,  and  select  Paris,  that  city  of  fiery 
ordeals  and  branch  establishment  of  hell,  as  the  soil  in 
which  to  plant  the  said  cashier.  So  be  it.  Creeds, 
schools,  institutions,  and  moral  systems,  all  human  rules 
and  regulations,  great  and  small,  will,  one  after  another, 
present  much  the  same  face  that  an  intimate  friend  turns 
upon  you  when  you  ask  him  to  lend  you  a  thousand 
francs.  With  a  dolorous  dropping  of  the  jaw,  they 
indicate  the  guillotine,  much  as  your  friend  aforesaid  will 
furnish  you  with  the  address  of  the  money-lender,  point- 
ing you  to  one  of  the  hundred  gates  by  which  a  man 
comes  to  the  last  refuge  of  the  destitute. 

Yet  nature  has  her  freaks  in  the  making  of  a  man's 
mind  ;  she  indulges  herself  and  makes  a  few  honest  folk 
now  and  again,  and  now  and  then  a  cashier. 

Wherefore,  that  race  of  corsairs  whom  we  dignify 
with  the  title  of  bankers,  the  gentry  who  take  out  a 
license  for  which  they  pay  a  thousand  crowns,  as  the 
privateer  takes  out  his  letters  of  marque,  hold  these  rare 
products  of  the  incubations  of  virtue  in  such  esteem  that 
they  confine  them  in  cages  in  their  counting-houses, 
much  as  governments  procure  and  maintain  specimens  of 
strange  beasts  at  their  own  charges. 

If  the  cashier  is  possessed  of  an  imagination  or  of  a 
fervid  temperament  ;  if,  as  will  sometimes  happen  to  the 
most  complete  cashier,  he  loves  his  wife,  and  that  wife 
grows  tired  of  her  lot,  has  ambitions,  or  merely  some 
vanity  in  her  composition,  the  cashier  is  undone.  Search 
the  chronicles  of  the  counting-house.  You  will  not  find 
a  single  instance  of  a  cashier  attaining  a  position^  as  it  is 
called.  They  are  sent  to  the  hulks  ;  they  go  to  foreign 
parts  ;  they  vegetate  on  a  second  floor  in  the  Rue  Saint- 
Louis  among  the  market  gardens  of  the  Marais.  Some 
day,  when  the  cashiers  of  Paris  come  to  a  sense  of  their 
real  value,  a  cashier  will  be  hardly  obtainable  for  money. 
Still,  certain  it  is  that  there  are   people  who  are  fit  for 


56  Melmoth  Reconciled 

nothing  but  to  be  cashiers,  just  as  the  bent  of  a  certain 
order  of  mind  inevitably  makes  for  rascality.  But,  oh 
marvel  of  our  civilisation  !  Society  rew^ards  virtue  with  an 
income  of  a  hundred  louis  in  old  age,  a  dwelling  on  a 
second  floor,  bread  sufficient,  occasional  new  bandana 
handkerchiefs,  an  elderly  wife  and  her  offspring. 

So  much  for  virtue.  But  for  the  opposite  course,  a 
little  boldness,  a  faculty  for  keeping  on  the  windward 
side  of  the  law,  as  Turenne  outflanked  Montecuculli, 
and  Society  will  sanction  the  theft  of  millions,  shower 
ribands  upon  the  thief,  cram  him  with  honours,  and 
smother  him  with  consideration. 

Government,  moreover,  works  harmoniously  with  this 
profoundly  illogical  reasoner — Society.  Government  levies 
a  conscription  on  the  young  intelligence  of  the  kingdom 
at  the  age  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  a  conscription  of  pre- 
cocious power.  Great  ability  is  prematurely  exhausted 
by  excessive  brain-work  before  it  is  sent  up  to  be  submitted 
to  a  process  of  selection.  Nurserymen  sort  and  select 
seeds  in  much  the  same  way.  To  this  process  the 
Government  brings  professional  appraisers  of  talent,  men 
who  can  assay  brains  as  experts  assay  gold  at  the  Mint. 
Five  hundred  such  heads,  set  afire  with  hope,  are  sent  up 
annually  by  the  most  progressive  portion  of  the  popu- 
lation ;  and  of  these  the  Government  takes  one-third,  puts 
them  in  sacks  called  the  Ecoles,  and  shakes  them  up 
together  for  three  years.  Though  every  one  of  these 
young  plants  represents  vast  productive  power,  they  are 
made,  as  one  may  say,  into  cashiers.  They  receive 
appointments  ;  the  rank  and  file  of  engineers  is  made  up 
of  them;  they  are  employed  as  captains  of  artillery;  there 
is  no  (subaltern)  grade  to  which  they  may  not  aspire. 
Finally,  when  these  men,  the  pick  of  the  youth  of  the 
nation,  fattened  on  mathematics  and  stuffed  with  know- 
ledge, have  attained  the  age  of  fifty  years,  they  have  their 
reward,  and  receive  as  the  price  of  their  services  the  third- 
floor  lodging,  the  wife  and  family,  and  all  the  comforts 


Melmoth  Reconciled  57 

that  sweeten  life  for  mediocrity.  If  from  among  this 
race  of  dupes  there  should  escape  some  five  or  six  men 
of  genius  who  climb  the  highest  heights,  is  it  not 
miraculous  ? 

This  is  an  exact  statement  of  the  relations  between 
Talent  and  Probity  on  the  one  hand,  and  Government 
and  Society  on  the  other,  in  an  age  that  considers  itself 
to  be  progressive.  Without  this  prefatory  explanation  a 
recent  occurrence  in  Paris  would  seem  improbable  ;  but 
preceded  by  this  summing  up  of  the  situation,  it  will 
perhaps  receive  some  thoughtful  attention  from  minds 
capable  of  recognising  the  real  plague-spots  of  our 
civilisation,  a  civilisation  which  since  18 15  has  been 
moved  by  the  spirit  of  gain  rather  than  by  principles  of 
honour. 

About  five  o'clock,  on  a  dull  autumn  afternoon,  the 
cashier  of  one  of  the  largest  banks  in  Paris  was  still  at 
his  desk,  working  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  that  had  been 
lit  for  some  time.  In  accordance  with  the  use  and 
wont  of  commerce,  the  counting-house  was  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  low-ceiled  and  far  from  spacious  mezzanine 
floor,  and  at  the  very  end  of  a  passage  lighted  only  by 
borrowed  lights.  The  office  doors  along  this  corridor, 
each  with  its  label,  gave  the  place  the  look  of  a  bath- 
house. At  four  o'clock  the  stolid  porter  had  proclaimed, 
according  to  his  orders,  '  The  bank  is  closed.'  And  by 
this  time  the  departments  were  deserted,  the  letters 
despatched,  the  clerks  had  taken  their  leave.  The  wives 
of  the  partners  in  the  firm  were  expecting  their  lovers  ; 
the  two  bankers  dining  with  their  mistresses.  Everything 
was  in  order. 

The  place  where  the  strong  boxes  had  been  bedded  in 
sheet-iron  was  just  behind  the  little  sanctum,  where  the 
cashier  was  busy.  Doubtless  he  was  balancing  his  books. 
The  open  front  gave  a  glimpse  of  a  safe  of  hammered 
iron,  so  enormously  heavy  (thanks  to  the  science  of  the 


58  Melmoth  Reconciled 

modern  inventor)  that  burglars  could  not  carry  it  away. 
The  door  only  opened  at  the  pleasure  of  those  who  knew 
its  password.  The  letter-lock  was  a  warden  who  kept 
its  own  secret  and  could  not  be  bribed;  the  mysterious 
word  was  an  ingenious  realisation  of  the  '  Open  sesame  !  ' 
in  the  Arabian  Nights.  But  even  this  was  as  nothing. 
A  man  might  discover  the  password;  but  unless  he  knew 
the  lock's  final  secret,  the  ultima  ratio  of  this  gold-guarding 
dragon  of  mechanical  science,  it  discharged  a  blunderbuss 
at  his  head. 

The  door  of  the  room,  the  walls  of  the  room,  the 
shutters  of  the  windows  in  the  room,  the  whole  place,  in 
fact,  was  lined  with  sheet-iron  a  third  of  an  inch  in 
thickness,  concealed  behind  the  thin  wooden  panelling. 
The  shutters  had  been  closed,  the  door  had  been  shut. 
If  ever  man  could  feel  confident  that  he  was  absolutely 
alone,  and  that  there  was  no  remote  possibility  of  being 
watched  by  prying  eyes,  that  man  was  the  cashier  of 
the  house  of  Nucingen  and  Company,  in  the  Rue  Saint- 
Lazare. 

Accordingly  the  deepest  silence  prevailed  in  that  iron 
cave.  The  fire  had  died  out  in  the  stove,  but  the  room 
was  full  of  that  tepid  warmth  which  produces  the  dull 
heavy-headedness  and  nauseous  queasiness  of  a  morning 
after  an  orgy.  The  stove  is  a  mesmerist  that  plays  no 
small  part  in  the  reduction  of  bank  clerks  and  porters  to 
a  state  of  idiocy. 

A  room  with  a  stove  in  it  is  a  retort  in  which  the 
power  of  strong  men  is  evaporated,  where  their  vitality 
is  exhausted,  and  their  wills  enfeebled.  Government 
offices  are  part  of  a  great  scheme  for  the  manufacture 
of  the  mediocrity  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  a 
Feudal  System  on  a  pecuniary  basis — and  money  is  the 
foundation  of  the  Social  Contract.  (See  Les  Employés.) 
The  mephitic  vapours  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  crowded 
room  contribute  in  no  small  degree  to  bring  about  a 
gradual   deterioration    of  intelligences,    the    brain    that 


Melmoth  Reconciled  59 

gives  off  the  largest  quantity  of  nitrogen  asphyxiates  the 
others,  in  the  long  run. 

The  cashier  was  a  man  of  five-and-forty  or  there- 
abouts. As  he  sat  at  the  table,  the  light  from  a  modera- 
tor lamp  shining  full  on  his  bald  head  and  glistening 
fringe  of  iron-grey  hair  that  surrounded  it — this  baldness 
and  the  round  outlines  of  his  face  made  his  head  look 
very  like  a  ball.  His  complexion  was  brick-red,  a  few 
wrinkles  had  gathered  about  his  eyes,  but  he  had  the 
smooth,  plump  hands  of  a  stout  man.  His  blue  cloth 
coat,  a  little  rubbed  and  worn,  and  the  creases  and 
shininess  of  his  trousers,  traces  of  hard  wear  that  the 
clothes-brush  fails  to  remove,  would  impress  a  superficial 
observer  with  the  idea  that  here  was  a  thrifty  and 
upright  human  being,  sufficient  of  the  philosopher  or  of 
the  aristocrat  to  wear  shabby  clothes.  But,  unluckily,  it  is 
easy  to  find  penny-wise  people  who  will  prove  weak, 
wasteful,  or  incompetent  in  the  capital  things  of  life. 

The  cashier  wore  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honour 
at  his  button-hole,  for  he  had  been  a  major  of  dragoons  in 
the  time  of  the  Emperor.  M.  de  Nucingen,  who  had  been 
a  contractor  before  he  became  a  banker,  had  had  reason 
in  those  days  to  know  the  honourable  disposition  of  his 
cashier,  who  then  occupied  a  high  position.  Reverses  of 
fortune  had  befallen  the  major,  and  the  banker  out  of 
regard  for  him  paid  him  five  hundred  francs  a  month. 
The  soldier  had  become  a  cashier  in  the  year  18 13,  after 
his  recovery  from  a  wound  received  at  Studzianka  during 
the  Retreat  from  Moscow,  followed  by  six  months  of 
enforced  idleness  at  Strasbourg,  whither  several  officers 
had  been  transported  by  order  of  the  Emperor,  that  they 
might  receive  skilled  attention.  This  particular  officer, 
Castanier  by  name,  retired  with  the  honorary  grade  of 
colonel,  and  a  pension  of  two  thousand  four  hundred 
francs. 

In  ten  years'  time  the  cashier  had  completely  effaced 
the  soldier,  and  Castanier  inspired  the  banker  with  such 


6o  Melmoth  Reconciled 

trust  in  him,  that  he  was  associated  in  the  transactions 
that  went  on  in  the  private  office  behind  his  little 
counting-house.  The  baron  himself  had  access  to  it 
by  means  of  a  secret  staircase.  There,  matters  of 
business  were  decided.  It  was  the  bolting-room  where 
proposals  were  sifted  ;  the  privy  council  chamber  where 
the  reports  of  the  money  market  were  analysed  ;  circular 
notes  issued  thence  ;  and  finally,  the  private  ledger  and 
the  journal  which  summarised  the  work  of  all  the  depart- 
ments were  kept  there. 

Castanier  had  gone  himself  to  shut  the  door  which 
opened  on  to  a  staircase  that  led  to  the  parlour  occupied 
by  the  two  bankers  on  the  first  floor  of  their  hôtel.  This 
done,  he  had  sat  down  at  his  desk  again,  and  for  a  moment 
he  gazed  at  a  little  collection  of  letters  of  credit  drawn 
on  the  firm  of  Watschildine  of  London.  Then  he  had 
taken  up  the  pen  and  imitated  the  banker's  signature 
upon  each.  Nucingen  he  wrote,  and  eyed  the  forged  signa- 
tures critically  to  see  which  seemed  the  most  perfect 
copy. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  as  if  a  needle  had  pricked  him. 
'  You  are  not  alone  !  '  a  boding  voice  seemed  to  cry  in 
his  heart  ;  and  indeed  the  forger  saw  a  man  standing  at 
the  little  grated  window  of  the  counting-house,  a  man 
whose  breathing  was  so  noiseless  that  he  did  not  seem  to 
breathe  at  all.  Castanier  looked,  and  saw  that  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  was  wide  open  j  the  stranger 
must  have  entered  by  that  way. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  old  soldier  felt  a 
sensation  of  dread  that  made  him  stare  open-mouthed 
and  wide-eyed  at  the  man  before  him;  and  for  that 
matter,  the  appearance  of  the  apparition  was  sufficiently 
alarming  even  if  unaccompanied  by  the  mysterious 
circumstances  of  so  sudden  an  entry.  The  rounded 
forehead,  the  harsh  colouring  of  the  long  oval  face, 
indicated  quite  as  plainly  as  the  cut  of  his  clothes  that 
the  man  was  an  Englishman,  reeking  of  his  native  isle? 


Melmoth  Reconciled  6i 

You  had  only  to  look  at  the  collar  of  his  overcoat,  at  the 
voluminous  cravat  which  smothered  the  crushed  frills  of 
a  shirt  front  so  white  that  it  brought  out  the  changeless 
leaden  hue  of  an  impassive  face,  and  the  thin  red  line 
of  the  lips  that  seemed  made  to  suck  the  blood  of 
corpses  ;  and  you  could  guess  at  once  at  the  black 
gaiters  buttoned  up  to  the  knee,  and  the  half-puri- 
tanical costume  of  a  wealthy  Englishman  dressed  for  a 
walking  excursion.  The  intolerable  glitter  of  the 
stranger's  eyes  produced  a  vivid  and  unpleasant  impres- 
sion, which  was  only  deepened  by  the  rigid  outlines  of 
his  features.  The  dried-up,  emaciated  creature  seemed 
to  carry  within  him  some  gnawing  thought  that  con- 
sumed him  and  could  not  be  appeased. 

He  must  have  digested  his  food  so  rapidly  that  he 
could  doubtless  eat  continually  without  bringing  any 
trace  of  colour  into  his  face  or  features.  A  tun  of 
Tokay  vin  de  succession  would  not  have  caused  any 
faltering  in  that  piercing  glance  that  read  men's  inmost 
thoughts,  nor  dethroned  the  merciless  reasoning  faculty 
that  always  seemed  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  things.  There 
was  something  of  the  fell  and  tranquil  majesty  of  a  tiger 
about  him. 

'  I  have  come  to  cash  this  bill  of  exchange,  sir,'  he 
said.  Castanier  felt  the  tones  of  his  voice  thrill  through 
every  nerve  v/ith  a  violent  shock  similar  to  that  given  by 
a  discharge  of  electricity. 

'  The  safe  is  closed,'  said  Castanier. 

*  It  is  open,'  said  the  Englishman,  looking  round  the 
counting-house.  '  To-morrow  is  Sunday,  and  I  cannot 
wait.  The  amount  is  for  five  hundred  thousand  francs. 
You  have  the  money  there,  and  I  must  have  it.' 

'  But  how  did  you  come  in,  sir  ?  ' 

The  Englishman  smiled.  That  smile  frightened 
Castanier.  No  words  could  have  replied  more  fully  nor 
more  peremptorily  than  that  scornful  and  imperial  curl  of 
the  stranger's  lips.     Castanier  turned  away,  took  up  fifty 


62  Melmoth  Reconciled 

packets,  each  containing  ten  thousand  francs  in  bank- 
notes, and  held  them  out  to  the  stranger,  receiving 
in  exchange  for  them  a  bill  accepted  by  the  Baron  de 
Nucingen.  A  sort  of  convulsive  tremor  ran  through  him 
as  he  saw  a  red  gleam  in  the  stranger's  eyes  when  they 
fell  on  the  forged  signature  on  the  letter  of  credit. 

'  It  ...  it  wants  your  signature  .  .  .'  stammered 
Castanier,  handing  back  the  bill. 

*  Hand  me  your  pen,'  answered  the  Englishman. 

Castanier  handed  him  the  pen  with  which  he  had 
just  committed  forgery.  The  stranger  wrote  John 
Melmoth^  then  he  returned  the  slip  of  paper  and  the  pen 
to  the  cashier.  Castanier  looked  at  the  handwriting, 
noticing  that  it  sloped  from  right  to  left  in  the  Eastern  ' 
fashion,  and  Melmoth  disappeared  so  noiselessly  that 
when  Castanier  looked  up  again  an  exclamation  broke 
from  him,  partly  because  the  man  was  no  longer  there, 
partly  because  he  felt  a  strange  painful  sensation  such  as 
our  imagination  might  take  for  an  effect  of  poison. 

The  pen  that  Melmoth  had  handled  sent  the  same 
sickening  heat  through  him  that  an  emetic  produces. 
But  it  seemed  impossible  to  Castanier  that  the  English- 
man should  have  guessed  his  crime.  His  inward 
qualms  he  attributed  to  the  palpitation  of  the  heart  that, 
according  to  received  ideas,  was  sure  to  follow  at  once 
on  such  a  *  turn  '  as  the  stranger  had  given  him. 

'  The  devil  take  it  j  I  am  very  stupid.  Providence  is 
watching  over  me  ;  for  if  that  brute  had  come  round  to 
see  my  gentlemen  to-morrow,  my  goose  would  have  been 
cooked  !  '  said  Castanier,  and  he  burned  the  unsuccessful 
attempts  at  forgery  in  the  stove. 

He  put  the  bill  that  he  meant  to  take  with  him  in  an 
envelope,  and  helped  himself  to  five  hundred  thousand 
francs  in  French  and  English  bank-notes  from  the  safe, 
which  he  locked.  Then  he  put  everything  in  order,  lit 
a  candle,  blew  out  the  lamp,  took  up  his  hat  and  umbrella, 
and  went  out  sedately,  as  usual,  to  leave  one  of  the  two 


Melmoth  Reconciled  63 

keys  of  the  strong  room  with  Madame  de  Nucingen,  in 
the  absence  of  her  husband  the  Baron. 

'  You  are  in  luck,  M.  Castanier/  said  the  banker's 
wife  as  he  entered  her  room;  'we  have  a  holiday  on 
Monday  ;  you  can  go  into  the  country,  or  to  Soizy.' 

*  Madame,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  your  husband 
that  the  bill  of  exchange  on  Watschildine,  which  was 
behind  time,  has  just  been  presented  ?  The  five  hundred 
thousand  francs  have  been  paid  ;  so  I  shall  not  come  back 
till  noon  on  Tuesday.' 

'  Good-bye,  Monsieur  j  I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant 
time.' 

'The  same  to  you,  Madame,'  replied  the  old  dragoon 
as  he  went  out.  He  glanced  as  he  spoke  at  a  young  man 
well  known  in  fashionable  society  at  that  time,  a  M.  de 
Rastignac,  who  was  regarded  as  Madame  de  Nucingen's 
lover. 

'  Madame,'  remarked  this  latter,  '  the  old  boy  looks  to 
me  as  if  he  meant  to  play  you  some  ill  turn.' 

'  Pshaw  !  impossible  j  he  is  too  stupid.' 

'  Piquoizeau,'  said  the  cashier,  walking  into  the  porter's 
room,  '  what  made  you  let  anybody  come  up  after  four 
o'clock  ?  ' 

'  I  have  been  smoking  a  pipe  here  in  the  doorway  ever 
since  four  o'clock,'  said  the  man,  '  and  nobody  has  gone 
into  the  bank.  Nobody  has  come  out  either  except  the 
gentlemen ' 

'  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  upon  my  word  and  honour.     Stay,  though,  at 
four  o'clock  M.  Werbrust's  friend  came,  a  young  fellow . 
from  Messrs.  du  Tillet  &  Co.,  in  the  Rue  Joubert.' 

'  All  right,'  said  Castanier,  and  he  hurried  away. 

The  sickening  sensation  of  heat  that  he  had  felt  when 
he  took  back  the  pen  returned  in  greater  intensity. 
'  Mille  diables  !  '  thought  he,  as  he  threaded  his  way 
along  the  Boulevard  de  Gand,  '  haven't  I  taken  proper 


64 


Melmoth  Reconciled 


precautions  ?     Let  me  think  !     Two  clea| 
and  Monday,  then  a  day  of  uncertainty  be 
to  look  for  me  ;  altogether,  three  days  ani 
respite.     I  have  a  couple  of  passports  and 
disguises  ;  is  not  that   enough    to    throw 
detective  off  the  scent  ?     On  Tuesday  m^ 
draw  a  million  francs  in  London  before  th 
picion  has  been  aroused.     My  debts  I  am 
for  the  benefit  of  my  creditors,  who  will  p 
the  bills,  and  I  shall  live  comfortably  in  Ita 
of  my  days  as  the  Conte  Ferraro.     I  was  a 
when  he  died,  poor  fellow,  in  the  marsh  of 
I  shall  slip  into  his  skin.   .  .  .  Mille  diables 
who  is   to    follow  after  me  might  give  t| 
Think  of  an  old  campaigner  like  me  infat 
to  tie  myself  to  a  petticoat  tail  !  .  .  .  Wh 
must  leave  her  behind.     Yes,  I  could  makel 
to  it  J  but — I  know  myself — I  should  be  ai 
go  back  for  her.     Still,  nobody  knows  Aqui 
take  her  or  leave  her  ?  ' 

'  You  will   not  take  her  !  '  cried  a   voi 
Castanier  with  sickening  dread.     He  turned 
saw  the  Englishman. 

'  The  devil  is  in  it  !  *  cried  the  cashier  alo 
Melmoth  had  passed  his  victim  by  this 
Castanier's  first  impulse  had  been  to  fasten 
a  man  who  read  his  own  thoughts,  he  was 
by  opposing   feelings   that   the  immediate 
temporary  paralysis.     When  he  resumed  his 
once  more  into  that  fever  of  irresolution 
those  who  are  so  carried  away  by  passion  t 
ready  to  commit  a  crime,  but  have  not  suffici 
of  character  to  keep  it  to  themselves  witho 
terribly  in  the  process.     So,  although  Castani 
up  his  mind  to  reap  the  fruits  of  a  crime 
already  half  executed,  he  hesitated  to  carry  out 
1  Protested, 


,ys,Saliiin,asto 
'  jiess  and 


gkestsicalcoun 


ir  àe  te  1 


uaiTttis 


ttevft 


Melmoth  Reconciled  65 


^s,  Su  him,  as  for  many  men  of  mixed  character  in  whom 

they  Ijcness   and    strength   are   equally  blended,  the    least 

™    ur  ning  consideration  determines  whether  they  shall  con- 

difF<e  to  lead  blameless  lives  or  become  actively  criminal. 

clevhe  vast  masses  of  men  enrolled  in  Napoleon's  armies 

ig  I  e  were  many  who,  like  Castanier,  possessed  the  purely 

;htest;ical  courage  demanded  on  the  battlefield,  yet  lacked 

fig  b€moral  courage  which  makes  a  man  as  great  in  crime 

'  f*  "  e  could  have  been  in  virtue. 

tal)|§r  the'he  letter  of  credit  was  drafted  in  such  terms  that 

withiediately  on   his  arrival  he  might  dr;'w  twenty- five 

nbin,asand  pounds  on  the  firmofWatschildine,  the  London 

e  woespondents  of  the  house  of  Nucingen.     The  London 

a  cse  had  been  already  advised  of  the  draft  about  to  be 

atu   1  en  >2  upon  them  ;  he  had  written  to  them  himself.     He 

m  :e  he/instructed  an  agent  (chosen  at  random)  to  take  his 

ike    my  rage  in  a  vessel  which  was  to  leave  Portsmouth  with  a 

as!   lougllthy  English  family  on   board,  who  were  going  to 

|iiili       Shy^  and  the  passage-money  had  been  paid  in  the  name  of 

Conte  Ferraro.     The  smallest  details  of  the  scheme 

oic(   lat  f  been  thought  out.     He  had  arranged  matters  so  as 

d    "plyjlivert  the  search  that  would  be  made  for  him  into 

gium  and  Switzerland,  while  he  himself  was  at  sea  in 

slou  English  vessel.     Then,  by  the  time  that  Nucingen 

isti    j  a^it  flatter  himself  that  he  was  on  the  track  of  his 

:eni    larre fcashier,  the  said  cashier,  as  the  Conte  Ferraro,  hoped 

isso   ich  be  safe  in  Naples.     He  had  determined  to  disfigure 

ter(   t  wïface  in  order  to  disguise  himself  the  more  completely, 

hisi    z  he  by  means  of  an  acid  to  imitate  the  scars  of  smallpox. 

n  w|§i  be:,  in  spite  of  all  these  precautions,  which  surely  seemed 

heyf  they  must  secure  him  complete  immunity,  his  con- 

Scie^trennce  tormented  him  ;  he  was  afraid.     The  even  and 

ffeceful  life  that  he  had  led  for  so  long  had  modified  the 

ie    id  rrrality  of  the  camp.     His  life  was  stainless  as  yet  ;  he 

ch    Id  not  sully  it  without  a  pang.     So  for  the  last  time 

lesigbandoned  himself  to  all  the  influences  of  the  better 

that  strenuously  resisted. 

£ 


66  Melmoth  Reconciled 

*  Pshaw  !  '  he  said  at  last,  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard 
and  the  Rue  Montmartre,  'I  will  take  a  cab  after  the 
play  this  evening  and  go  out  to  Versailles.  A  post- 
chaise  will  be  ready  for  me  at  my  old  quartermaster's 
place.  He  would  keep  my  secret  even  if  a  dozen  men 
were  standing  ready  to  shoot  him  down.  The  chances 
are  all  in  my  favour,  so  far  as  I  see  j  so  I  shall  take  my 
little  Naqui  with  me,  and  I  will  go.* 

*  You  will  not  go  !  '  exclaimed  the  Englishman,  and 
the  strange  tones  of  his  voice  drove  all  the  cashier's  blood 
back  to  his  heart. 

Melmoth  stepped  into  a  tilbury  which  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  was  whirled  away  so  quickly,  that  when  Castanier 
looked  up  he  saw  his  foe  some  hundred  paces  away  from 
him,  and  before  it  even  crossed  his  mind  to  cut  off  the 
man's  retreat  the  tilbury  was  far  on  its  way  up  the 
Boulevard  Montmartre. 

*  Well,  upon  my  word,  there  is  something  supernatural 
about  this  !  '  said  he  to  himself.  '  If  I  were  fool  enough 
to  believe  in  God,  I  should  think  that  He  had  set  Saint 
Michael  on  my  tracks.  Suppose  that  the  devil  and  the 
police  should  let  me  go  on  as  I  please,  so  as  to  nab  me 
in  the  nick  of  time  ?  Did  any  one  ever  see  the  like  ! 
But  there,  this  is  folly.  .  .  .' 

Castanier  went  along  the  Rue  du  Faubourg-Mont- 
martre, slackening  his  pace  as  he  neared  the  Rue  Richer. 
There,  on  the  second  floor  of  a  block  of  buildings  which 
looked  out  upon  some  gardens,  lived  the  unconscious 
cause  of  Castanier's  crime — a  young  woman  known  in 
the  quarter  as  Mme.  de  la  Garde.  A  concise  history 
of  certain  events  in  the  cashier's  past  life  must  be  given 
in  order  to  explain  these  facts,  and  to  give  a  complete 
presentment  of  the  crisis  when  he  yielded  to  temptation. 

Mme.  de  la  Garde  said  that  she  was  a  Piedmontese. 
No  one,  not  even  Castanier,  knew  her  real  name.  She 
was  one  of  those  young  girls  who  are  driven  by  dire 
misery,  by  inability  to  earn  a  living,  or  by  fear  of  starva- 


Melmoth  Reconciled  67 

tion,  to  have  recourse  to  a  trade  which  most  of  them 
loathe,  many  regard  with  indifference,  and  some  few 
follow  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  their  constitution. 
But  on  the  brink  of  the  gulf  of  prostitution  in  Paris,  the 
young  girl  of  sixteen,  beautiful  and  pure  as  the  Madonna, 
had  met  with  Castanier.  The  old  dragoon  was  too 
rough  and  homely  to  make  his  way  in  society,  and  he 
was  tired  of  tramping  the  boulevard  at  night  and  of 
the  kind  of  conquests  made  there  by  gold.  For  some 
time  past  he  had  desired  to  bring  a  certain  regularity  into 
an  irregular  life.  He  was  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the 
poor  child  who  had  drifted  by  chance  into  his  arms,  and 
his  determination  to  rescue  her  from  the  life  of  the  streets 
was  half  benevolent,  half  selfish,  as  some  of  the  thoughts 
of  the  best  of  men  are  apt  to  be.  Social  conditions 
mingle  elements  of  evil  with  the  promptings  of  natural 
goodness  of  heart,  and  the  mixture  of  motives  underlying 
a  man's  intentions  should  be  leniently  judged.  Castanier 
had  just  cleverness  enough  to  be  very  shrewd  where  his 
own  interests  were  concerned.  So  he  concluded  to  be 
a  philanthropist  on  either  count,  and  at  first  made  her  his 
mistress. 

*  Hey  !  hey  !  '  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  soldierly 
fashion,  *  I  am  an  old  wolf,  and  a  sheep  shall  not  make 
a  fool  of  me.  Castanier,  old  man,  before  you  set  up 
housekeeping,  reconnoitre  the  girl's  character  for  a  bit, 
and  see  if  she  is  a  steady  sort.' 

This  irregular  union  gave  the  Piedmontese  a  status 
the  most  nearly  approaching  respectability  among  those 
which  the  world  declines  to  recognise.  During  the  first 
year  she  took  the  nom  de  guerre  of  Aquilina,  one  of  the 
characters  in  Venice  Preserved  which  she  had  chanced  to 
read.  She  fancied  that  she  resembled  the  courtesan  in 
face  and  general  appearance,  and  in  a  certain  precocity 
of  heart  and  brain  of  which  she  was  conscious.  When 
Castanier  found  that  her  life  was  as  well  regulated  and 
virtuous  as  was  possible  for  a  social  outlaw,  he  manifested 


6S  Melmoth  Reconciled 

a  desire  that  they  should  live  as  husband  and  wife.  So 
she  took  the  name  of  Mme.  de  la  Garde,  in  order  to 
approach,  as  closely  as  Parisian  usages  permit,  the  con- 
ditions of  a  real  marriage.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  many 
of  these  unfortunate  girls  have  one  fixed  idea,  to  be 
looked  upon  as  respectable  middle-class  women,  who  lead 
humdrum  lives  of  faithfulness  to  their  husbands  ;  women 
who  would  make  excellent  mothers,  keepers  of  household 
accounts,  and  menders  of  household  linen.  This  longing 
springs  from  a  sentiment  so  laudable,  that  society  should 
take  it  into  consideration.  But  society,  incorrigible  as 
ever,  will  assuredly  persist  in  regarding  the  married 
woman  as  a  corvette  duly  auchorised  by  her  flag  and 
papers  to  go  on  her  own  course,  while  the  woman  who 
is  a  wife  in  all  but  name  is  a  pirate  and  an  outlaw  for 
lack  of  a  document.  A  day  came  when  Mme.  de  la 
Garde  would  fain  have  signed  herself  *  Mme.  Castanier.' 
The  cashier  was  put  out  by  this. 

*  So  you  do  not  love  me  well  enough  to  marry  me  ?  ' 
she  said. 

Castanier  did  not  answer  ;  he  was  absorbed  by  his 
thoughts.  The  poor  girl  resigned  herself  to  her  fate. 
The  ex-dragoon  was  in  despair.  Naqui's  heart  softened 
towards  him  at  the  sight  of  his  trouble  ;  she  tried  to 
soothe  him,  but  what  could  she  do  when  she  did  not 
know  what  ailed  him  ?  When  Naqui  made  up  her 
mind  to  knovi^  the  secret,  although  she  never  asked  him 
a  question,  the  cashier  dolefully  confessed  to  the  exist- 
ence of  a  A4me.  Castanier.  This  lawful  wife,  a  thousand 
times  accursed,  was  living  in  a  humble  way  in  Stras- 
bourg on  a  small  property  there  ;  he  wrote  to  her  twice 
a  year,  and  kept  the  secret  of  her  existence  so  well,  that 
no  one  suspected  that  he  was  married.  The  reason  of  this 
reticence  ?  If  it  is  familiar  to  many  military  men  who 
may  chance  to  be  in  a  like  predicament,  it  is  perhaps 
worth  while  to  give  the  story. 

Your    genuine    trooper    (if  it    is   allowable    here    to 


Melmoth  Reconciled  69 

employ  the  word  which  in  the  army  signifies  a  man  who 
is  destined  to  die  as  a  captain)  is  a  sort  of  serf,  a  part 
and  parcel  of  his  regiment,  an  essentially  simple  creature, 
and  Castanier  was  marked  out  by  nature  as  a  victim  to 
the  wiles  of  mothers  with  grown-up  daughters  left  too 
long  on  their  hands.  It  was  at  Nancy,  during  one  of 
those  brief  intervals  of  repose  when  the  Imperial  armies 
were  not  on  active  service  abroad,  that  Castanier  was  so 
unlucky  as  to  pay  some  attention  to  a  young  lady  with 
whom  he  danced  at  a  ridotto,  the  provincial  name  for  the 
entertainments  often  given  by  the  military  to  the  towns- 
folk, or  vice  versa^  in  garrison  towns.  A  scheme  for 
inveigling  the  gallant  captain  into  matrimony  was  im- 
mediately set  on  foot,  one  of  those  schemes  by  which 
mothers  secure  accomplices  in  a  human  heart  by  touching 
all  its  motive  springs,  while  they  convert  all  their  friends 
into  fellow-conspirators.  Like  all  people  possessed  by 
one  idea,  these  ladies  press  everything  into  the  service 
of  their  great  project,  slowly  elaborating  their  toils, 
much  as  the  ant-lion  excavates  its  funnel  in  the  sand  and 
lies  in  wait  at  the  bottom  for  its  victim.  Suppose  that 
no  one  strays,  after  all,  into  that  carefully  constructed 
labyrinth  ?  Suppose  that  the  ant-lion  dies  of  hunger  and 
thirst  in  her  pit  ?  Such  things  may  be,  but  if  any  heed- 
less creature  once  enters  in,  it  never  comes  out.  All 
the  wires  which  could  be  pulled  to  induce  action  on  the 
captain's  part  were  tried  ;  appeals  were  made  to  the  secret 
interested  motives  that  always  come  into  play  in  such  cases; 
they  worked  on  Castanier's  hopes  and  on  the  weaknesses  and 
vanity  of  human  nature.  Unluckily,  he  had  praised  the 
daughter  to  her  mother  when  he  brought  her  back  after 
a  waltz,  a  little  chat  followed,  and  then  an  invitation  in 
the  most  natural  way  in  the  world.  Once  introduced 
into  the  house,  the  dragoon  was  dazzled  by  the  hospitality 
of  a  family  who  appeared  to  conceal  their  real  wealth 
beneath  a  show  of  careful  economy.  He  was  skilfully 
flattered  on  all  sides,  and  every  one  extolled  for  his  benefit 


7©  Melmoth  Reconciled 

the  various  treasures  there  displayed.  A  neatly  timed 
dinner,  served  on  plate  lent  by  an  uncle,  the  attention 
shown  to  him  by  the  only  daughter  of  the  house,  the 
gossip  of  the  town,  a  well-to-do  sub-lieutenant  who 
seemed  likely  to  cut  the  ground  from  under  his  feet — 
all  the  innumerable  snares,  in  short,  of  the  provincial 
ant-lion  were  set  for  him,  and  to  such  good  purpose,  that 
Castanier  said  five  years  later,  *  To  this  day  I  do  not 
know  how  it  came  about  !  ' 

The  dragoon  received  fifteen  thousand  francs  with  the 
lady,  who,  after  two  years  of  marriage,  became  the 
ugliest  and  consequently  the  most  peevish  woman  on 
earth.  Luckily  they  had  no  children.  The  fair  com- 
plexion (maintained  by  a  Spartan  regimen),  the  fresh, 
bright  colour  in  her  face,  which  spoke  of  an  engaging 
modesty,  became  overspread  with  blotches  and  pimples  ; 
her  figure,  which  had  seemed  so  straight,  grew  crooked, 
the  angel  became  a  suspicious  and  shrewish  creature  who 
drove  Castanier  frantic.  Then  the  fortune  took  to  itself 
wings.  At  length  the  dragoon,  no  longer  recognising 
the  woman  whom  he  had  wedded,  left  her  to  live  on  a 
little  property  at  Strasbourg,  until  the  time  when  it 
should  please  God  to  remove  her  to  adorn  Paradise.  She 
was  one  of  those  virtuous  women  who,  for  want  of  other 
occupation,  would  weary  the  life  out  of  an  angel  with 
complainings,  who  pray  till  (if  their  prayers  are  heard  in 
heaven)  they  must  exhaust  the  patience  of  the  Almighty, 
and  say  everything  that  is  bad  of  their  husbands  in  dove- 
like murmurs  over  a  game  of  boston  with  their  neigh- 
bours. When  Aquilina  learned  all  these  troubles  she 
clung  still  more  affectionately  to  Castanier,  and  made 
him  so  happy,  varying  with  woman's  ingenuity  the 
pleasures  with  which  she  filled  his  life,  that  all  un- 
wittingly she  was  the  cause  of  the  cashier's  downfall. 

Like  many  women  who  seem  by  nature  destined  to 
sound  all  the  depths  of  love,  Mme.  de  la  Garde  was 
disinterested.     She  asked  neither  for  gold  nor  for  jewel- 


Melmoth  Reconciled  71 

lery,  gave  no  thought  to  the  future,  lived  entirely  for  the 
present  and  for  the  pleasures  of  the  present.  She  accepted 
expensive  ornaments  and  dresses,  the  carriage  so  eagerly 
coveted  by  women  of  her  class,  as  one  harmony  the  more 
in  the  picture  of  life.  There  w^s  absolutely  no  vanity  in 
her  desire  not  to  appear  at  a  better  advantage  but  to  look 
the  fairer,  and,  moreover,  no  v^roman  could  live  v<rith- 
out  luxuries  more  cheerfully.  When  a  man  of  generous 
nature  (and  military  men  are  mostly  of  this  stamp)  meets 
with  such  a  woman,  he  feels  a  sort  of  exasperation  at 
finding  himself  her  debtor  in  generosity.  He  feels  that 
he  could  stop  a  mail  coach  to  obtain  money  for  her  if  he 
has  not  sufficient  for  her  whims.  He  will  commit  a 
crime  if  so  he  may  be  great  and  noble  in  the  eyes  of 
some  woman  or  of  his  special  public  ;  such  is  the  nature 
of  the  man.  Such  a  lover  is  like  a  gambler  who  would  be 
dishonoured  in  his  own  eyes  if  he  did  not  repay  the  sum 
he  borrowed  from  a  waiter  in  a  gaming-house  j  but  will 
shrink  from  no  crime,  will  leave  his  wife  and  children 
without  a  penny,  and  rob  and  murder,  if  so  he  may  come 
to  the  gaming  table  with  a  full  purse,  and  his  honour 
remain  untarnished  among  the  frequenters  of  that  fatal 
abode.     So  it  was  with  Castanier. 

He  had  begun  by  installing  Aquilina  in  a  modest 
fourth-floor  dwelling,  the  furniture  being  of  the  simplest 
kind.  But  when  he  saw  the  girl's  beauty  and  great 
qualities,  when  he  had  known  inexpressible  and  unlooked- 
for  happiness  with  her,  he  began  to  dote  upon  her,  and 
longed  to  adorn  his  idol.  Then  Aquilina's  toilette  was 
so  comically  out  of  keeping  with  her  poor  abode,  that  for 
both  their  sakes  it  was  clearly  incumbent  on  him  to 
move.  The  change  swallowed  up  almost  all  Castanier's 
savings,  for  he  furnished  his  domestic  paradise  with  all 
the  prodigality  that  is  lavished  on  a  kept  mistress.  A 
pretty  woman  must  have  everything  pretty  about  her  ; 
the  unity  of  charm  in  the  woman  and  her  surround- 
ings singles  her  out  from  among  her  sex.     This  senti- 


72  Melmoth  ReconciJed 

ment  of  homogeneity  indeed,  though  it  has  frequently 
escaped  the  attention  of  observers,  is  instinctive  in  human 
nature  ;  and  the  same  prompting  leads  elderly  spinsters 
to  surround  themselves  vnih  dreary  relics  of  the  past. 
But  the  lovely  Piedmontese  must  have  the  nevv^est  and 
latest  fashions,  and  all  that  was  daintiest  and  prettiest  in 
stuffs  for  hangings,  in  silks  or  jewellery,  in  fine  china  and 
other  brittle  and  fragile  wares.  She  asked  for  nothing  ; 
but  when  she  was  called  upon  to  make  a  choice,  when 
Castanier  asked  her,  '  Which  do  you  like  ?  '  she  would 
answer,  '  Why,  this  is  the  nicest  !  '  Love  never  counts 
the  cost,  and  Castanier  therefore  always  took  the 
'  nicest.' 

When  once  the  standard  had  been  set  up,  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  everything  in  the  household  must  be 
in  conformity,  from  the  linen  plate  and  crystal  through 
a  thousand  and  one  items  of  expenditure  down  to  the 
pots  and  pans  in  the  kitchen.  Castanier  had  meant  to 
'  do  things  simply,'  as  the  saying  goes,  but  he  gradually 
found  himself  more  and  more  in  debt.  One  expense 
entailed  another.  The  clock  called  for  candle  sconces. 
Fires  must  be  lighted  in  the  ornamental  grates,  but  the 
curtains  and  hangings  were  too  fresh  and  delicate  to  be 
soiled  by  smuts,  so  they  must  be  replaced  by  patent  and 
elaborate  fireplaces,  warranted  to  give  out  no  smoke, 
recent  inventions  of  the  people  who  are  clever  at  drawing 
up  a  prospectus.-  Then  Aquilina  found  it  so  nice  to  run 
about  barefooted  on  the  carpet  in  her  room,  that  Castanier 
must  have  soft  carpets  laid  everywhere  for  the  pleasure 
of  playing  with  Naqui.  A  bathroom,  too,  was  built  for 
her,  everything  to  the  end  that  she  might  be  more  com- 
fortable. 

Shopkeepers,  workmen,  and  manufacturers  in  Paris 
have  a  mysterious  knack  of  enlarging  a  hole  in  a  man's 
purse.  They  cannot  give  the  price  of  anything  upon 
inquiry  ;  and  as  the  paroxysm  of  longing  cannot  abide 
delay,   orders    are    given    by    the    feeble    light    of   an 


Melmoth  Reconciled  73 

approximate  estimate  of  cost.  The  same  people  never 
send  in  the  bills  at  once,  but  ply  the  purchaser  with 
furniture  till  his  head  spins.  Everything  is  so  pretty,  so 
charming  ;  and  every  one  is  satisfied. 

A  few  months  later  the  obliging  furniture  dealers  are 
metamorphosed,  and  reappear  in  the  shape  of  alarming 
totals  on  invoices  that  fill  the  soul  with  their  horrid 
clamour  ;  they  are  in  urgent  want  of  the  money  j  they 
are,  as  you  may  say,  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy,  their 
tears  flow,  it  is  heartrending  to  hear  them  !     And  then 

the  gulf  yawns,  and  gives  up  serried  columns   of 

figures  marching  four  deep,  when  as  a  matter  of  fact 
they  should  have  issued  innocently  three  by  three. 

Before  Castanier  had  any  idea  of  how  much  he  had 
spent,  he  had  arranged  for  Aquilina  to  have  a  carriage 
from  a  livery  stable  when  she  went  out,  instead  of  a  cab. 
Castanier  was  a  gourmand  ;  he  engaged  an  excellent  cook  ; 
and  Aquilina,  to  please  him,  had  herself  made  the  pur- 
chases of  early  fruit  and  vegetables,  rare  delicacies,  and 
exquisite  wines.  But,  as  Aquilina  had  nothing  of  her 
own,  these  gifts  of  hers,  so  precious  by  reason  of  the 
thought  and  tact  and  graciousness  that  prompted  them, 
were  no  less  a  drain  upon  Castanier's  purse  ;  he  did  not 
Hke  his  Naqui  to  be  without  money,  and  Naqui  could  not 
keep  money  in  her  pocket.  So  the  table  was  a  heavy 
item  of  expenditure  for  a  man  with  Castanier's  income. 
The  ex-dragoon  was  compelled  to  resort  to  various  shifts 
for  obtaining  money,  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
renounce  this  delightful  life.  He  loved  the  woman  too 
well  to  cross  the  freaks  of  the  mistress.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who,  through  self-love  or  through  weakness  of 
character,  can  refuse  nothing  to  a  woman  ;  false  shame 
overpowers  them,  and  they  rather  face  ruin  than  make 

the  admissions  :  *  I  cannot '     '  My  means  will  not 

permit '     *  I  cannot  attord ' 

When,  therefore,  Castanier  saw  that  if  he  meant  to 
emerge    from    the   abyss    of  debt    into   which   he   had 


74  Melmoth  Reconciled 

plunged,  he  must  part  with  Aquilina  and  live  upon 
bread  and  water,  he  was  so  unable  to  do  without  her  or 
to  change  his  habits  of  life,  that  daily  he  put  off  his  plans 
of  reform  until  the  morrow.  The  debts  were  pressing, 
and  he  began  by  borrowing  money.  His  position  and 
previous  character  inspired  confidence,  and  of  this  he 
took  advantage  to  devise  a  system  of  borrowing  money 
as  he  required  it.  Then,  as  the  total  amount  of  debt 
rapidly  increased,  he  had  recourse  to  those  commercial 
inventions  known  as  accommodation  bills.  This  form  of 
bill  does  not  represent  goods  or  other  value  received,  and 
the  first  endorser  pays  the  amount  named  for  the  obliging 
person  who  accepts  it.  This  species  of  fraud  is  tolerated 
because  it  is  impossible  to  detect  it,  and,  moreover,  it  is 
an  imaginary  fraud  which  only  becomes  real  if  payment 
is  ultimately  refused. 

When  at  length  it  was  evidently  impossible  to  borrow 
any  longer,  whether  because  the  amount  of  the  debt  was 
now  so  greatly  increased,  or  because  Castanier  was  unable 
to  pay  the  large  amount  of  interest  on  the  aforesaid  sums 
of  money,  the  cashier  saw  bankruptcy  before  him.  On 
making  this  discovery,  he  decided  for  a  fraudulent  bank- 
ruptcy rather  than  an  ordinary  failure,  and  preferred  a 
crime  to  a  misdemeanour.  He  determined,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  celebrated  cashier  of  the  Royal  Treasury, 
to  abuse  the  trust  deservedly  won,  and  to  increase  the 
number  of  his  creditors  by  making  a  final  loan  of  the 
sum  sufficient  to  keep  him  in  comfort  in  a  foreign 
country  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  All  this,  as  has  been 
seen,  he  hnd  prepared  to  do. 

Aquilina  knew  nothing  of  the  irksome  cares  of  this 
life  Î  she  enjoyed  her  existence,  as  many  a  woman  does, 
making  no  inquiry  as  to  where  the  money  came  from, 
even  as  sundry  other  folk  will  eat  their  buttered  rolls 
untroubled  by  any  restless  spirit  of  curiosity  as  to  the 
culture  and  growth  of  wheat  ;  but  as  the  labour  and  mis- 
calculations of  agriculture  lie  on  the  other  side  of  the 


Melmoth  Reconciled  75 

baker's  oven,  so,  beneath  the  unappreciated  luxury  of 
many  a  Parisian  household  lie  intolerable  anxieties  and 
exorbitant  toil. 

While  Castanier  was  enduring  the  torture  of  the 
strain,  and  his  thoughts  were  full  of  the  deed  that 
should  change  his  whole  life,  Aquilina  was  lying 
luxuriously  back  in  a  great  armchair  by  the  fireside, 
beguiling  the  time  by  chatting  with  her  waiting-maid. 
As  frequently  happens  in  such  cases,  the  maid  had 
become  the  mistress's  confidante,  Jenny  having  first 
assured  herself  that  her  mistress's  ascendency  over 
Castanier  was  complete. 

*  What  are  we  to  do  this  evening  ?  Léon  seems 
determined  to  come,'  Mme.  de  la  Garde  was  saying,  as 
she  read  a  passionate  epistle  indited  upon  a  faint  grey 
notepaper. 

*  Here  is  the  master  !  '  said  Jenny. 

Castanier  came  in.  Aquilina,  nowise  disconcerted, 
crumpled  up  the  letter,  took  it  with  the  tongs,  and  held 
it  in  the  flames. 

*  So  that  is  what  you  do  with  your  love-letters,  is  it  ?  ' 
asked  Castanier. 

'  Oh  goodness,  yes,'  said  Aquilina  ;  *  is  it  not  the  best 
way  of  keeping  them  safe  ?  Besides,  fire  should  go  to 
the  fire,  as  water  makes  for  the  river.' 

'You  are  talking  as  if  it  were  a  real  love-letter, 
Naqui ' 

*■  Well,  am  I  not  handsome  enough  to  receive  them  ?  ' 
she  said,  holding  up  her  forehead  for  a  kiss.  There  was 
a  carelessness  in  her  manner  that  would  have  told  any 
man  less  blind  than  Castanier  that  it  was  only  a  piece  of 
conjugal  duty,  as  it  were,  to  give  this  joy  to  the  cashier  ; 
but  use  and  wont  had  brought  Castanier  to  the  point 
where  clear-sightedness  is  no  longer  possible  for  love. 

*  I  have  taken  a  box  at  the  Gymnase  this  evening,'  he 
said  i  *■  let  us  have  dinner  early,  and  then  we  need  not 
dine  in  a  hurry.' 


76  Melmoth   Reconciled 

*  Go  and  take  Jenny.  I  am  tired  of  plays.  I  do  not 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  me  this  evening  ;  I  would 
rather  stay  here  by  the  fire.' 

'Come,  all  the  same  though,  Naqui  ;  I  shall  not  be 
here  to  bore  you  much  longer.  Yes,  Quiqui,  I  am 
going  to  start  to-night,  and  it  will  be  some  time  before  I 
come  back  again.  I  am  leaving  everything  in  your 
charge.     Will  you  keep  your  heart  for  me  too  ?  ' 

'  Neither  my  heart  nor  anything  else,'  she  said  ;  '  but 
when  you  come  back  again,  Naqui  will  still  be  Naqui  for 
you.' 

'Well,  this  is  frankness.  So  you  would  not  follow 
me?' 

'No.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Eh  !  why,  how  can  I  leave  the  lover  who  writes  me 
such  sweet  little  notes  ?  '  she  asked,  pointing  to  the 
blackened  scrap  of  paper  with  a  mocking  smile. 

'  Is  there  any  truth  in  it  ?  '  asked  Castanier.  *  Have 
you  really  a  lover  ?  ' 

'  Really  !  '  cried  Aquilina  ;  '  and  have  you  never  given 
it  a  serious  thought,  dear  ?  To  begin  with,  you  are  fifty 
years  old.  Then  you  have  just  the  sort  of  face  to  put 
on  a  fruit  stall  ;  if  the  woman  tried  to  sell  you  for  a 
pumpkin,  no  one  would  contradict  her.  You  pufF  and 
blow  like  a  seal  when  you  come  upstairs  ;  your  paunch 
rises  and  falls  like  the  diamond  on  a  woman's  forehead  ! 
It  is  pretty  plain  that  you  served  in  the  dragoons  ;  you 
are  a  very  ugly-looking  old  man.  Fiddle-de-dee.  If 
you  have  any  mind  to  keep  my  respect,  I  recommend 
you  not  to  add  imbecility  to  these  qualities  by  imagining 
that  such  a  girl  as  I  am  will  be  content  with  your 
asthmatic  love,  and  not  look  for  youth  and  good  looks 
and  pleasure  by  way  of  a  variety ' 

*  Aquilina  !  you  are  laughing,  of  course  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  very  well  ;  and  are  you  not  laughing  too  ?  Do 
you  take  me  for  a  fool,  telling  me  that  you  are  going 


Melmoth  Reconciled  77 

away  ?  **  I  am  going  to  start  to-night  !  "  she  said, 
mimicking  his  tones.  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  Would  you 
talk  like  that  if  you  were  really  going  away  from  your 
Naqui  ?  You  would  cry,  like  the  booby  that  you 
are  !  ' 

*  After  all,  if  I  go,  will  you  follow  ?  '  he  asked. 

*  Tell  me  first  whether  this  journey  of  yours  is  a  bad 
joke  or  not.' 

*  Yes,  seriously,  I  am  going.' 

'  Well,  then,  seriously,  I  shall  stay.  A  pleasant  journey 
to  you,  my  boy  !  I  will  wait  till  you  come  back.  I 
would  sooner  take  leave  of  life  than  take  leave  of  my 
dear,  cosy  Paris ' 

'  Will  you  not  come  to  Italy,  to  Naples,  and  lead  a 
pleasant  life  there — a  delicious,  luxurious  life,  with  this 
stout  old  fogey  of  yours,  who  puffs  and  blows  like  a 
seal  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Ungrateful  girl  !  ' 

^  Ungrateful  ?  '  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet.  *  I  might 
leave  this  house  this  moment  and  take  nothing  out  of  it 
but  myself.  I  shall  have  given  you  all  the  treasures  a 
young  girl  can  give,  and  something  that  not  every  drop 
in  your  veins  and  mine  can  ever  give  me  back.  If,  by 
any  means  whatever,  by  selling  my  hopes  of  eternity, 
for  instance,  I  could  recover  my  past  self,  body  as  soul 
(for  I  have,  perhaps,  redeemed  my  soul),  and  be  pure  as 
a  lily  for  my  lover,  I  would  not  hesitate  a  moment  ! 
What  sort  of  devotion  has  rewarded  mine  ?  You  have 
housed  and  ffed  me,  just  as  you  give  a  dog  food  and  a 
kennel  because  he  is  a  protection  to  the  house,  and  he 
may  take  kicks  when  we  are  out  of  humour,  and  lick 
our  hands  as  soon  as  we  are  pleased  to  call  to  him.  And 
vv^hich  of  us  two  will  have  been  the  more  generous  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  dear  child,  do  you  not  see  that  I  am  joking  ?  ' 
returned  Castanier.  '  I  am  going  on  a  short  journey  ;  I 
shall  not  be  away  for  very  long.     But  come  with  me  to 


7  8  Melmoth  Reconciled 

the  Gymnase  ;  I  shall  start  just  before  midnight,  after  I 
have  had  time  to  say  good-bye  to  you.' 

*  Poor  pet  !  so  you  are  really  going,  are  you  ?  '  she 
said.  She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  drew  down 
his  head  against  her  bodice. 

*  You  are  smothering  me  !  '  cried  Castanier,  with  his 
face  buried  in  Aquilina's  breast.  That  damsel  turned  to 
say  in  Jenny's  ear,  '  Go  to  Léon,  and  tell  him  not  to 
come  till  one  o'clock.  If  you  do  not  find  him,  and  he 
comes  here  during  the  leave-taking,  keep  him  in  your 
room. — Well,'  she  went  on,  setting  free  Castanier,  and 
giving  a  tweak  to  the  tip  of  his  nose,  *  never  mind, 
handsomest  of  seals  that  you  are.  I  will  go  to  the 
theatre  with  you  this  evening.  But  all  in  good  time  j 
let  us  have  dinner  !  There  is  a  nice  little  dinner  for  you 
— just  what  you  like.' 

*  It  is  very  hard  to  part  from  such  a  woman  as  you  !  ' 
exclaimed  Castanier. 

'  Very  well  then,  why  do  you  go  ?  '  asked  she. 

'  Ah  !  why  ?  why  ?  If  I  were  to  begin  to  explain  the 
reasons  why,  I  must  tell  you  things  that  would  prove  to 
you  that  I  love  you  almost  to  madness.  Ah  !  if  you 
have  sacrificed  your  honour  for  me,  I  have  sold  mine  for 
you  ;  we  are  quits.     Is  that  love  ?  ' 

*  What  is  all  this  about  ?  '  said  she.  *  Come,  now, 
promise  me  that  if  I  had  a  lover  you  would  still  love  me 
as  a  father  ;  that  would  be  love  !  Come,  now,  promise 
it  at  once,  and  give  us  your  fist  upon  it.' 

'  I  should  kill  you,'  and  Castanier  smiled  as  he  spoke. 

They  sat  down  to  the  dinner  table,  and  went  thence 
to  the  Gymnase.  When  the  first  part  of  the  perform- 
ance was  over,  it  occurred  to  Castanier  to  show  himself 
to  some  of  his  acquaintances  in  the  house,  so  as  to  turn 
away  any  suspicion  of  his  departure.  He  left  Mme.  de 
la  Garde  in  the  corner  box  where  she  was  seated, 
according  to  her  modest  wont,  and  went  to  walk  up 
and  down  in  the  lobby.     He  had  not  gone  many  paces 


Melmoth  Reconciled  79 

before  he  saw  the  Englishman,  and  with  a  sudden  return 
of  the  sickening  sensation  of  heat  that  once  before  had 
vibrated  through  him,  and  of  the  terror  that  he  had  felt 
already,  he  stood  face  to  face  with  Melmoth. 

*  Forger  !  ' 

At  the  word,  Castanier  glanced  round  at  the  people 
who  were  moving  about  them.  He  fancied  that  he  could 
see  astonishment  and  curiosity  in  their  eyes,  and  wishing 
to  be  rid  of  this  Englishman  at  once,  he  raised  his  hand 
to  strike  him — and  felt  his  arm  paralysed  by  some  in- 
visible power  that  sapped  his  strength  and  nailed  him  to 
the  spot.  He  allowed  the  stranger  to  take  him  by  the 
arm,  and  they  walked  together  to  the  green-room  like 
two  friends. 

*  Who  is  strong  enough  to  resist  me  ?  '  said  the  English- 
man, addressing  him.  *  Do  you  not  know  that  everything 
here  on  earth  must  obey  me,  that  it  is  in  my  power  to 
do  everything.  I  read  men's  thoughts,  I  see  the  future, 
and  I  know  the  past.  I  am  here,  and  I  can  be  elsewhere 
also.  Time  and  space  and  distance  are  nothing  to  me. 
The  whole  world  is  at  my  beck  and  call.  I  have  the  power 
of  continual  enjoyment  and  of  giving  joy.  I  can  see 
through  walls,  discover  hidden  treasures,  and  fill  my  hands 
with  them.  Palaces  arise  at  my  nod,  and  my  architect 
makes  no  mistakes.  I  can  make  all  lands  break  forth 
into  blossom,  heap  up  their  gold  and  precious  stones,  and 
surround  myself  with  fair  women  and  ever  new  faces  ; 
everything  is  yielded  up  to  my  will.  I  could  gamble  on 
the  Stock  Exchange,  and  my  speculations  would  be 
infallible  j  but  a  man  who  can  find  the  hoards  that 
misers  have  hidden  in  the  earth  need  not  trouble  himself 
about  stocks.  Feel  the  strength  of  the  hand  that  grasps 
you  ;  poor  wretch,  doomed  to  shame  !  Try  to  bend  the 
arm  of  iron  !  try  to  soften  the  adamantine  heart  !  Fly 
from  me  if  you  dare  !  You  would  hear  my  voice  in  the 
depths  of  the  caves  that  lie  under  the  Seine  ;  you  might 
hide  in  the  Catacombs,  but  would  you  not  see  me  there? 


8o  Melmoth  Reconciled 

My  voice  could  be  heard  through  the  sound  of  the 
thunder,  my  eyes  shine  as  brightly  as  the  sun,  for  I  am 
the  peer  of  Lucifer  !  ' 

Castanier  heard  the  terrible  words,  and  felt  no  protest 
nor  contradiction  within  himself.  He  walked  side  by 
side  with  the  Englishman,  and  had  no  power  to  leave 
him. 

'You  are  mine  ;  you  have  just  committed  a  crime.  I 
have  found  at  last  the  mate  whom  I  have  sought.  Have 
you  a  mind  to  learn  your  destiny  ?  Aha  !  you  came 
here  to  see  a  play,  and  you  shall  see  a  play — nay,  two. 
Come.  Present  me  to  Mme.  de  la  Garde  as  one 
of  your  best  friends.  Am  I  not  your  last  hope  of 
escape  ?  ' 

Castanier,  followed  by  the  stranger,  returned  to  his 
box  ;  and  in  accordance  with  the  order  he  had  just 
received,  he  hastened  to  introduce  Melmoth  to  Mme.  de 
la  Garde.  Aquilina  seemed  to  be  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised. The  Englishman  declined  to  take  a  seat  in  front, 
and  Castanier  was  once  more  beside  his  mistress  ;  the 
man's  slightest  wish  must  be  obeyed.  The  last  piece 
was  about  to  begin,  for,  at  that  time,  small  theatres  only 
gave  three  pieces.  One  of  the  actors  had  made  the 
Gymnase  the  fashion,  and  that  evening  Perlet  (the 
actor  in  question)  was  to  play  in  a  vaudeville  called 
the  Le  Comédien  (V Etampes^  in  which  he  filled  four 
different  parts.' 

When  the  curtain  rose,  the  stranger  stretched  out  his 
hand  over  the  crowded  house.  Castanier's  cry  of  terror 
died  away,  for  the  walls  of  his  throat  seemed  glued 
together  as  Melmoth  pointed  to  the  stage,  and  the 
cashier  knew  that  the  play  had  been  changed  at  the 
Englishman's  desire. 

He  saw  the  strong-room  at  the  bank  ;  he  saw  the  Baron 
de  Nucingen  in  conference  with  a  police-officer  from 
the  Prefecture,  who  was  informing  him  of  Castanier's 
conduct,  explaining  that  the  cashier  had  absconded  with 


Melmoth  Reconciled  8i 

money  taken  from  the  safe,  giving  the  history  of  the 
forged  signature.  The  information  was  put  in  writing  ; 
the  document  signed  and  duly  despatched  to  the  Public 
Prosecutor. 

'  Are  we  in  time,  do  you  think  ?  '  asked  Nucingen. 

*  Yes,'  said  the  agent  of  police  j  '  he  is  at  the  Gymnase, 
and  has  no  suspicion  of  anything.' 

Castanier  fidgeted  on  his  chair,  and  made  as  if  he  would 
leave  the  theatre,  but  Melmoth's  hand  lay  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  sit  and  watch  ;  the  hideous  power 
of  the  man  produced  an  effect  Hke  that  of  nightmare,  and 
he  could  not  move  a  limb.  Nay,  the  man  himself  was  the 
nightmare  ;  his  presence  weighed  heavily  on  his  victim 
like  a  poisoned  atmosphere.  When  the  wretched  cashier 
turned  to  implore  the  Englishman's  mercy,  he  met  those 
blazing  eyes  that  discharged  electric  currents,  which 
pierced  through  him  and  transfixed  him  like  darts  of 
steel. 

'  What  have  I  done  to  you  ?  '  he  said,  in  his  prostrate 
helplessness,  and  he  breathed  hard  like  a  stag  at  the 
water's  edge.     '  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  ' 

*  Look  !  '  cried  Melmoth. 

Castanier  looked  at  the  stage.  The  scene  had  been 
changed.  The  play  seemed  to  be  over,  and  Castanier 
beheld  himself  stepping  from  the  carriage  with  Aquilina; 
but  as  he  entered  the  courtyard  of  the  house  in  the  Rue 
Richer,  the  scene  again  was  suddenly  changed,  and  he 
saw  his  own  house.  Jenny  was  chatting  by  the  fire  in 
her  mistress's  room  with  a  subaltern  officer  of  a  line 
regiment  then  stationed  at  Paris. 

'  He  is  going,  is  he  ?  '  said  the  sergeant,  who  seemed 
to  belong  to  a  family  in  easy  circumstances  ;  *  I  can  be 
happy  at  my  ease  !  I  love  Aquilina  too  well  to  allow 
her  to  belong  to  that  old  toad  !  I,  myself,  am  going  to 
marry  Mme.  de  la  Garde  !  '  cried  the  sergeanr. 

*  Old  toad  !  '  Castanier  murmured  piteously. 

'  Here  come  the  master  and  mistress  ;  hide  yourself  ! 

F 


82  Mel  moth  Reconciled 

Stay,  get  in  here,  Monsieur  Léon,'  said  Jenny.  'The 
master  won't  stay  here  for  very  long.' 

Castanier  watched  the  sergeant  hide  himself  among 
Aquilina's  gowns  in  her  dressing-room.  Almost  im- 
mediately he  himself  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  took 
leave  of  his  mistress,  who  made  fun  of  him  in  '  asides  '  to 
Jenny,  while  she  uttered  the  sweetest  and  tenderest  words 
in  his  ears.  She  wept  with  one  side  of  her  face,  and 
laughed  with  the  other.  The  audience  called  for  an 
encore. 

'  Accursed  creature  !  '  cried  Castanier  from  his  box. 

Aquilina  was  laughing  till  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

'  Goodness  !  '  she  cried,  '  how  funny  Perlet  is  as  the 
Englishwoman  !  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  laugh  ?  Every 
one  else  in  the  house  is  laughing.  Laugh,  dear  !  '  she 
said  to  Castanier. 

Melmoth  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  unhappy  cashier 
shuddered.  The  Englishman's  laughter  wrung  his  heart 
and  tortured  his  brain  ;  it  was  as  if  a  surgeon  had  bored 
his  skull  with  a  red-hot  iron. 

'Laughing!  are  they  laughing!'  stammered  Castanier. 

He  did  not  see  the  prim  English  lady  whom  Perlet 
was  acting  with  such  ludicrous  effect,  nor  hear  the 
English-French  that  had  filled  the  house  with  roars  of 
laughter  ;  instead  of  all  this,  he  beheld  himself  hurrying 
from  the  Rue  Richer,  hailing  a  cab  on  the  Boulevard, 
bargaining  with  the  man  to  take  him  to  Versailles. 
Then  once  more  the  scene  changed.  He  recognised  the 
sorry  inn  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  l'Orangerie  and  the 
Rue  des  Récollets,  which  was  kept  by  his  old  quarter- 
master. It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  most 
perfect  stillness  prevailed,  no  one  was  there  to  watch 
his  movements.  The  post-horses  were  put  into  the 
carriage  (it  came  from  a  house  in  the  Avenue  de  Paris 
in  which  an  Englishman  lived,  and  had  been  ordered 
in  the  foreigner's  name  to  avoid  raising  suspicion). 
Castanier  saw  that  he  had   his   bills  and  his  passports, 


Melmoth  Reconciled  83 

stepped  into  the  carriage,  and  set  out.  But  at  the 
barrier  he  saw  two  gendarmes  lying  in  wait  for  the 
carriage.  A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  him,  but  Mel- 
moth gave  him  a  glance,  and  again  the  sound  died  in 
his  throat. 

'Keep  your  eyes  on  the  stage,  and  be  quiet  !*  said  the 
Englishman. 

In  another  moment  Castanier  saw  himself  flung  into 
prison  at  the  Conciergerie  ;  and  in  the  fifth  act  of  the 
drama,  entitled  The  Cashier^  he  saw  himself,  in  three 
months'"  time,  condemned  to  twenty  years  of  penal 
servitude.  Again  a  cry  broke  from  him.  He  was  ex- 
posed upon  the  Place  du  Palais-de-Justice,  and  the  execu- 
tioner branded  him  with  a  red-hot  iron.  Then  came  the 
last  scene  of  all  ;  among  some  sixty  convicts  in  the  prison 
yard  of  the  Bicètre,  he  was  awaiting  his  turn  to  have  the 
irons  riveted  on  his  limbs. 

*  Dear  me  !  I  cannot  laugh  any  more  !  ,  .  .'  said 
Aquilina.  '  You  are  very  solemn,  dear  boy  ;  what  can 
be  the  matter  ?     The  gentleman  has  gone.' 

'A  word  with  you,  Castanier,'  said  Melmoth  when 
the  piece  was  at  an  end,  and  the  attendant  was  fastening 
Mme.  de  la  Garde's  cloak. 

The  corridor  was  crowded,  and  escape  impossible. 

'  Very  well,  what  is  it  ?  ' 

*No  human  power  can  hinder  you  from  taking 
Aquilina  home,  and  going  next  to  Versailles,  there,  to 
be  arrested.'  ' 

'How  so?» 

'  Because  you  are  in  a  hand  that  will  never  relax  its 
grasp,'  returned  the  Englishman. 

Castanier  longed  for  the  power  to  utter  some  word 
that  should  blot  him  out  from  among  living  men  and 
hide  him  in  the  lowest  depths  of  hell. 

*  Suppose  that  the  Devil  were  to  make  a  bid  for  your 
soul,  would  you  not  give  it  to  him  now  in  exchange  for 
the  power  of  God  ?     One  single  word,  and  those  five 


84-  Melmoth  Reconciled 

hundred  thousand  francs  shall  be  back  in  the  Baron  de 
Nucingen's  safe  ;  then  you  can  tear  up  your  letter  of 
credit,  and  all  traces  of  your  crime  will  be  obliterated. 
Moreover,  you  would  have  gold  in  torrents.  You  hardly 
believe  in  anything  perhaps  ?  Well,  if  all  this  comes  to 
pass,  you  will  believe  at  least  in  the  JDevil.' 

'  If  it  were  only  possible  !  '  said  Castanier  joyfully. 

*  The  man  who  can  do  it  all  gives  you  his  word  that 
it  is  possible,'  answered  the  Englishman. 

Melmoth,  Castanier,  and  Mme.  de  la  Garde  were 
standing  out  in  the  Boulevard  when  Melmoth  raised  his 
arm.  A  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  the  streets  were 
muddy,  the  air  was  close,  there  was  thick  darkness  over- 
head ;  but  in  a  moment,  as  the  arm  was  outstretched, 
Paris  was  filled  with  sunlight  j  it  was  high  noon  on  a 
bright  July  day.  The  trees  were  covered  with  leaves  ; 
a  double  stream  of  joyous  holiday  makers  strolled  beneath 
them.  Sellers  of  liquorice  water  shouted  their  cool  drinks. 
Splendid  carriages  rolled  past  along  the  streets.  A  cry 
of  terror  broke  from  the  cashier,  and  at  that  cry  rain  and 
darkness  once  more  settled  down  uj)on  the  Boulevard. 

Mme.  de  la  Garde  had  stepped  into  the  carriage.  '  Do 
be  quick,  dear  !  '  she  cried  ;  *  either  come  in  or  stay  out. 
Really,  you  are  as  dull  as  ditch-water  this  evening ' 

*  What  must  I  do  ?  '  Castanier  asked  of  Melmoth. 

*  Would  you  like  to  take  my  place  ?  '  inquired  the 
Englishman. 

«  Yes.' 

*  Very  well,  then  ;  I  will  be  at  your  house  in  a  few 
moments.' 

*  By  the  by,  Castanier,  you  are  rather  ofF  your  balance,* 
Aquilina  remarked.  '  There  is  some  mischief  brewing  ; 
you  were  quite  melancholy  and  thoughtful  all  through  the 
play.  Do  you  want  anything  that  I  can  give  you,  dear  ? 
Tell  me.' 

*  I  am  waiting  till  we  are  at  home  to  know  whether 
you  love  me.' 


Melmoth  Reconciled  85 

*You  need  not  wait  till  then,'  she  said,  throwing  her 
arms  round  his  neck.  '  There  !  '  she  said,  as  she  embraced 
him,  passionately  to  all  appearance,  and  plied  him  with 
the  coaxing  caresses  that  are  part  of  the  business  of  such 
a  life  as  hers,  like  stage  action  for  an  actress. 

'  Where  is  the  music  ?  '  asked  Castanier. 

*  What  next  ?  Only  think  of  your  hearing  music 
now  !  ' 

*  Heavenly  music  !  '  he  went  on.  *  The  sounds  seem 
to  come  from  above.* 

*  What  ?  You  have  always  refused  to  give  me  a  box  at 
the  Italiens  because  you  could  not  abide  music,  and  are 
you  turning  music-mad  at  this  time  of  day  ?  Mad — 
that  you  are  !  The  music  is  inside  your  own  noddle, 
old  addle-pate  !  *  she  went  on,  as  she  took  his  head  in 
her  hands  and  rocked  it  to  and  fro  on  her  shoulder. 
*  Tell  me  now,  old  man  ;  isn't  it  the  creaking  of  the 
wheels  that  sings  in  your  ears  ?  * 

*Just  listen,  Naqui  !  If  the  angels  make  music  for 
God  Almighty,  it  must  be  such  music  as  this  that  I  am 
drinking  in  at  every  pore,  rather  than  hearing.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  tell  you  about  it  j  it  is  as  sweet  as 
honey-water  !  ' 

*  Why,  of  course,  they  have  music  in  heaven,  for  the 
angels  in  all  the  pictures  have  harps  in  their  hands.  He 
is  mad,  upon  my  word  !  '  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  saw 
Castanier's  attitude  j  he  looked  like  an  opium-eater  in  a 
blissful  trance. 

They  reached  the  house.  Castanier,  absorbed  by  the 
thought  of  all  that  he  had  just  heard  and  seen,  knew  not 
whether  to  believe  it  or  no  ;  he  was  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  utterly  unable  to  think  connectedly.  He  came  to 
himself  in  Aquilina's  room,  whither  he  had  been  sup- 
ported by  the  united  efforts  of  his  mistress,  the  porter, 
and  Jenny  ;  for  he  had  fainted  as  he  stepped  from  the 
carriage. 

*  He  will    be    here    directly  !      Oh,    my  friends,  my 


86  Melmoth  Reconciled 

friends  !  *  he  cried,  and  he  flurtg  himself  despairingly  into 
the  depths  of  a  low  chair  beside  the  fire. 

Jenny  heard  the  bell  as  he  spoke,  and  admitted  the 
Englishman.  She  announced  that  *a  gentleman  had 
come  who  had  made  an  appointment  with  the  master,' 
when  Melmoth  suddenly  appeared,  and  deep  silence  fol- 
lowed. He  looked  at  the  porter — the  porter  went  ;  he 
looked  at  Jenny — and  Jenny  went  likewise. 

*  Madame,'  said  Melmoth,  turning  to  Aquilina,  *  with 
your  permission,  we  will  conclude  a  piece  of  urgent 
business.' 

He  took  Castanier's  hand,  and  Castanier  rose,  and  the 
two  men  went  into  the  drawing-room.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  room,  but  Melmoth's  eyes  lit  up  the  thickest 
darkness.  The  gaze  of  those  strange  eyes  had  left 
Aquilina  like  one  spellbound  ;  she  was  helpless,  unable 
to  take  any  thought  for  her  lover  ;  moreover,  she 
believed  him  to  be  safe  in  Jenny's  room,  whereas  their 
early  return  had  taken  the  waiting- woman  by  surprise, 
and  she  had  hidden  the  officer  in  the  dressing-room.  It 
had  all  happened  exactly  as  in  the  drama  that  Melmoth 
had  displayed  for  his  victim.  Presently  the  house-door 
was  slammed  violently,  and  Castanier  reappeared. 

*  What  ails  you  ?  '  cried  the  horror-struck  Aqui- 
Hna. 

There  was  a  change  in  the  cashier's  appearance.  A 
strange  pallor  overspread  his  once  rubicund  countenance  ; 
it  wore  the  peculiarly  sinister  and  stony  look  of  the  mys- 
terious visitor.  The  sullen  glare  of  his  eyes  was  intoler- 
able, the  fierce  light  in  them  seemed  to  scorch.  The 
man  who  had  looked  so  good-humoured  and  good-natured 
had  suddenly  grown  tyrannical  and  proud.  The  courtesan 
thought  that  Castanier  had  grown  thinner  ;  there  was  a 
terrible  majesty  in  his  brow  ;  it  was  as  if  a  dragon 
breathed  forth  a  malignant  influence  that  weighed  upon 
the  others  like  a  close,  heavy  atmosphere.  For  a  moment 
Aquilina  knew  not  what  to  do. 


Melmoth  Reconciled  87 

*  What  passed  between  you  and  that  diabolical-looking 
man  in  those  few  minutes  ?  *  she  asked  at  length. 

'  I  have  sold  my  soul  to  him.  I  feel  it  ;  I  am  no 
longer  the  same.  He  has  taken  my  self^  and  given  me 
his  soul  in  exchange.' 

*  What  ?  ' 

*  You  would  not  understand  it  at  all.  .  .  .  Ah  !  he 
was  right,'  Castanier  went  on,  '  the  fiend  was  right  !  I 
see  everything  and  know  all  things. — You  have  been 
deceiving  me  !  ' 

Aquilina  turned  cold  with  terror.  Castanier  lighted  a 
candle  and  went  into  the  dressing-room.  The  unhappy 
girl  followed  him  in  dazed  bewilderment,  and  great  was 
her  astonishment  when  Castanier  drew  the  dresses  that 
hung  there  aside  and  disclosed  the  sergeant. 

'  Come  out,  my  boy,'  said  the  cashier  j  and,  taking 
Léon  by  a  button  of  his  overcoat,  he  drew  the  officer 
into  his  room. 

The  Piedmontese,  haggard  and  desperate,  had  flung  her- 
self into  her  easy-chair.  Castanier  seated  himself  on  a  sofa 
by  the  fire,  and  left  Aquilina's  lover  in  a  standing  position. 

*  You  have  been  in  the  army,'  said  Léon  ;  *  I  am  ready 
to  give  you  satisfaction.' 

'You  are  a  fool,'  said  Castanier  drily.  *I  have  no 
occasion  to  fight.  I  could  kill  you  by  a  look  if  I  had 
any  mind  to  do  it.  1  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  youngster  ; 
why  should  I  kill  you  ?  I  can  see  a  red  line  round  your 
neck — the  guillotine  is  waiting  for  you.  Yes,  you  will 
end  in  the  Place  de  Grève.  You  are  the  headsman's 
property  !  there  is  no  escape  for  you.  You  belong  to  a 
vendita  of  the  Carbonari.  You  are  plotting  against  the 
Government.' 

'You  did  not  tell  me  that,'  cried  the  Piedmontese, 
turning  to  Léon. 

'So  you  do  not  know  that  the  Minister  decided  this 
morning  to  put  down  your  Society  ?  '  the  cashier  con- 
tinued.   The  Procureur-Général  has  a  list  of  your  names. 


88  Melmoth  Reconciled 

You  have  been  betrayed.     They  are  busy  drawing  up  the 
indictment  at  this  moment.' 

*  Then  was  it  you  who  betrayed  him  ?  '  cried  Aquilina, 
and  with  a  hoarse  sound  in  her  throat  like  the  growl 
of  a  tigress  she  rose  to  her  feet  ;  she  seemed  as  if  she 
would  tear  Castanier  in  pieces. 

*You  know  me  too  well  to  believe  it,'  Castanier 
retorted.     Aquilina  was  benumbed  by  his  coolness. 

*  Then  how  did  you  know  it  ?  '  she  murmured. 

*I  did  not  know  it  until  I  went  into  the  drawing- 
room  ;  now  I  know  it — now  I  see  and  know  all  things, 
and  can  do  all  things.' 

The  sergeant  was  overcome  with  amazement. 

*  Very  well  then,  save  him,  save  him,  dear  !  '  cried  the 
girl,  flinging  herself  at  Castanier's  feet.  '  If  nothing  is 
impossible  to  you,  save  him  !  1  will  love  you,  I  will 
adore  you,  I  will  be  your  slave  and  not  your  mistress.  I 
will  obey  your  wildest  whims  ;  you  shall  do  as  you  will 
with  me.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  give  you  more  than  love  ; 
you  shall  have  a  daughter's  devotion  as  well  as  .  .  . 
Rodolphe  !  why  will  you  not  understand  !  After  all, 
however  violent  my  passions  may  be,  I  shall  be  yours 
for  ever  !  What  should  I  say  to  persuade  you  ?  I  will 
invent  pleasures  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  Great  heavens  !  one  moment  ! 
whatever  you  shall  ask  of  me — to  fling  myself  from  the 
window,  for  instance — you  will  need  to  say  but  one 
word,  "  Léon  !  "  and  I  will  plunge  down  into  hell.  I 
would  bear  any  torture,  any  pain  of  body  or  soul,  any- 
thing you  might  inflict  upon  me  !  ' 

Castanier  heard  her  with  indifference.    For  all  answer, 
he  indicated  Léon  to  her  with  a  fiendish  laugh. 
*The  guillotine  is  waiting  for  him,'  he  repeated. 

*  No,  no,  no  !  He  shall  not  leave  this  house.  I  will 
save  him  !  '  she  cried.  *  Yes  ;  I  will  kill  any  one  who 
lays  a  finger  upon  him  !  Why  will  you  not  save  him  ?  ' 
she  shrieked  aloud  ;  her  eyes  were  blazmg,  her  hair 
unbound.     *  Can  you  save  him  i  ' 


Melmoth  Reconciled  89 

*  I  can  do  everything.' 

*  Why  do  you  not  save  him  ?  ' 

*  Why  ?  '  shouted  Castanier,  and  his  voice  made  the 
ceiling  ring. — *  Eh  !  it  is  my  revenge  !  Doing  evil  is 
my  trade  !  ' 

*  Die  ?  '  said  Aquilina  ;  *  must  he  die,  my  lover  ?  Is  it 
possible  ?  ' 

She  sprang  up  and  snatched  a  stiletto  from  a  basket 
that  stood  on  the  chest  of  drawers  and  went  to  Castanier, 
who  began  to  laugh. 

*You  know  very  well  that  steel  cannot  hurt  me 
now ' 

Aquilina's  arm  suddenly  dropped  like  a  snapped  harp 
string, 

*Out  with  you,  my  good  friend,'  said  the  cashier, 
turning  to  the  sergeant,  'and  go  about  your  business.' 

He  held  out  his  hand  ;  the  other  felt  Castanier's 
superior  power,  and  could  not  choose  but  obey. 

*  This  house  is  mine  ;  I  could  send  for  the  commissary 
of  police  if  I  chose,  and  give  you  up  as  a  man  who  has 
hidden  himself  on  my  premises,  but  I  would  rather  let 
you  go  ;  I  am  a  fiend,  I  am  not  a  spy.' 

'  I  shall  follow  him  !  '  said  Aquilina. 

*Then  follow  him,'  returned  Castanier.  —  'Here, 
Jenny ' 

Jenny  appeared. 

'Tell  the  porter  to  hail  a  cab  for  them.  —  Here, 
Naqui,'  said  Castanier,  drawing  a  bundle  of  bank-notes 
from  his  pocket  ;  '  you  shall  not  go  away  like  a  pauper 
from  a  man  who  loves  you  still.' 

He  held  out  three  hundred  thousand  francs.  Aquilina 
took  the  notes,  flung  them  on  the  floor,  spat  on  them, 
and  trampled  upon  them  in  a  frenzy  of  despair. 

'  We  will  leave  this  house  on  foot,'  she  cried,  '  without 
a  farthing  of  your  money. — ^Jenny,  stay  where  you 
are.' 

*  Good  evening  !  '  answered  the  cashier,  as  he  gathered 


po  Mel  moth  Reconciled 

up  the  notes  again.  *  I  have  come  back  from  my 
journey. — Jenny,'  he  added,  looking  at  the  bewildered 
waiting-maid,  'you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  good  sort  of 
girl.  You  have  no  mistress  now.  Come  here.  This 
evening  you  shall  have  a  master.' 

Aquilina,  who  felt  safe  nowhere,  went  at  once  with 
the  sergeant  to  the  house  of  one  of  her  friends.  But  all 
Leon's  movements  were  suspiciously  watched  by  the 
police,  and  after  a  time  he  and  three  of  his  friends  were 
arrested.  The  whole  story  may  be  found  in  the  news- 
papers of  that  day. 

Castanier  felt  that  he  had  undergone  a  mental  as  well 
as  a  physical  transformation.  The  Castanier  of  old  no 
longer  existed — the  boy,  the  young  Lothario,  the 
soldier  who  had  proved  his  courage,  who  had  been 
tricked  into  a  marriage  and  disillusioned,  the  cashier, 
the  passionate  lover  who  had  committed  a  crime  for 
Aquilina's  sake.  His  inmost  nature  had  suddenly  asserted 
itself.  His  brain  had  expanded,  his  senses  had  developed. 
His  thoughts  comprehended  the  whole  world  ;  he  saw  all 
the  things  of  earth  as  if  he  had  been  raised  to  some  high 
pinnacle  above  the  world. 

Until  that  evening  at  the  play  he  had  loved  Aquilina 
to  distraction.  Rather  than  give  her  up  he  would  have 
shut  his  eyes  to  her  infidelities  ;  and  now  all  that  blind 
passion  had  passed  away  as  a  cloud  vanishes  in  the  sun- 
light. 

Jenny  was  delighted  to  succeed  to  her  mistress's 
position  and  fortune,  and  did  tl. .  cashier's  will  in  all 
things  ;  but  Castanier,  who  could  read  the  inmost 
thoughts  of  the  soul,  discovered  the  real  motive  under- 
lying this  purely  physical  devotion.  He  amused  himself 
with  her,  however,  like  a  mischievous  child  who  greedily 
sucks  the  juice  of  the  cherry  and  flings  away  the  stone. 
The  next  morning  at  breakfast- time,  when  she  was  fullv 
convinced  that  she  was  a  lady  and  the  mistress  of  the 


Mel  moth  Reconciled  91 

house,  Castanier  uttered  one  by  one  the  thoughts  that 
filled  her  mind  as  she  drank  her  coffee. 

*  Do  you  know  what  you  are  thinking,  child  ?  '  he  said, 
smiling.  'I  will  tell  you  :  "  So  all  that  lovely  rosewood  fur- 
niture that  I  coveted  so  much,  and  the  pretty  dresses  that  I 
used  to  try  on,  are  mine  now  !  All  on  easy  terms  that 
Madame  refused,  I  do  not  know  why.  My  word  !  if 
I  might  drive  about  in  a  carriage,  have  jewels  and 
pretty  things,  a  box  at  the  theatre,  and  put  something 
by  !  with  me  he  should  lead  a  life  of  pleasure  fit  to 
kill  him  if  he  were  not  as  strong  as  a  Turk  !  I  never 
saw  such  a  man  !  " — Was  not  that  just  what  you  were 
thinking,'  he  went  on,  and  something  in  his  voice  made 
Jenny  turn  pale.  *  Well,  yes,  child  ;  you  could  not 
stand  it,  and  I  am  sending  you  away  for  your  own  good  ; 
you  would  perish  in  the  attempt.  Come,  let  us  part 
good  friends,'  and  he  coolly  dismissed  her  with  a  very 
small  sum  of  money. 

The  first  use  that  Castanier  had  promised  himself  that 
he  would  make  of  the  terrible  power  bought  at  the  price 
of  his  eternal  happiness,  was  the  full  and  complete  indul- 
gence of  all  his  tastes. 

He  first  put  his  affairs  in  order,  readily  settled  his 
account  with  M.  de  Nucingen,  who  found  a  worthy 
German  to  succeed  him,  and  then  determined  on  a 
carouse  worthy  of  the  palmiest  days  of  the  Roman 
Empire.  He  plunged  into  dissipation  as  recklessly  as 
Belshazzar  of  old  went  to  that  last  feast  in  Babylon. 
Like  Belshazzar,  he  saw  clearly  through  his  revels  a 
gleaming  hand  that  traced  his  doom  in  letters  of  flame, 
not  on  the  narfow  walls  of  the  banqueting-chamber,  but 
over  the  vast  spaces  of  heaven  that  the  rainbow  spans. 
His  feast  was  not,  indeed,  an  orgy  confined  within  the 
limits  of  a  banquet,  for  he  squandered  all  the  powers  of 
soul  and  body  in  exhausting  all  the  pleasures  of  earth. 
The  table  was  in  some  sort  earth  itself,  the  earth  that 
trembled  beneath  his  feet.      His  was  the  last  festival  of 


99  Melmoth  Reconciled 

the  reckless  spendthrift  who  has  thrown  all  prudence  to 
the  winds.  The  devil  had  given  him  the  key  of  the 
storehouse  of  human  pleasures  j  he  had  filled  and  refilled 
his  hands,  and  he  was  fast  nearing  the  bottom.  In  a 
moment  he  had  felt  all  that  that  enormous  power  could 
accomplish  ;  in  a  moment  he  had  exercised  it,  proved  it, 
wearied  of  it.  What  had  hitherto  been  the  sum  of 
human  desires  became  as  nothing.  So  often  it  happens 
that  with  possession  the  vast  poetry  of  desire  must  end, 
and  the  thing  possessed  is  seldom  the  thing  that  we 
dreamed  of. 

Beneath  Melmoth's  omnipotence  lurked  this  tragical 
anti-climax  of  so  many  a  passion,  and  now  the  inanity  of 
human  nature  was  revealed  to  his  successor,  to  whom 
infinite  power  brought  Nothingness  as  a  dowry. 

To  come  to  a  clear  understanding  of  Castanier's 
strange  position,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  how  sud- 
denly these  revolutions  of  thought  and  feeling  had  been 
wrought  ;  how  quickly  they  had  succeeded  each  other  j 
and  of  these  things  it  is  hard  to  give  any  idea  to  those 
who  have  never  broken  the  prison  bonds  of  time,  and 
space,  and  distance.  His  relation  to  the  world  without 
had  been  entirely  changed  with  the  expansion  of  his 
faculties. 

Like  Melmoth  himself,  Castanier  could  travel  in  a 
few  moments  over  the  fertile  plains  of  India,  could  soar 
on  the  wings  of  demons  above  African  desert  spaces,  or 
skim  the  surface  of  the  seas.  The  same  insight  that 
could  read  the  inmost  thoughts  of  others,  could  apprehend 
at  a  glance  the  nature  of  any  material  object,  just  as  he 
caught  as  it  were  all  flavours  at  once  upon  his  tongue. 
He  took  his  pleasure  like  a  despot  ;  a  blow  of  the  axe 
felled  the  tree  that  he  might  eat  its  fruits.  The  trans- 
itions, the  alternations  that  measure  joy  and  pain,  and 
diversify  human  happiness,  no  longer  existed  for  him. 
He  had  so  completely  glutted  his  appetites  that  pleasure 
must   overpass  the  limits  of  pleasure  to  tickle  a  palate 


Melmoth  Reconciled  93 

cloyed  with  satiety,  and  suddenly  grown  fastidious  beyond 
all  measure,  so  that  ordinary  pleasures  became  distasteful. 
Conscious  that  at  will  he  was  the  master  of  all  the 
women  that  he  could  desire,  knowing  that  his  power 
was  irresistible,  he  did  not  care  to  exercise  it  ;  they  were 
pliant  to  his  unexpressed  wishes,  to  his  most  extravagant 
caprices,  until  he  felt  a  horrible  thirst  for  love,  and 
would  have  love  beyond  their  power  to  give. 

The  world  refused  him  nothing  save  faith  and  prayer, 
the  soothing  and  consoling  love  that  is  not  of  this 
world.     He  was  obeyed — it  was  a  horrible  position. 

The  torrents  of  pain,  and  pleasure,  and  thought  that 
shook  his  soul  and  his  bodily  frame  would  have  over- 
whelmed the  strongest  human  being  ;  but  in  him  there 
was  a  power  of  vitality  proportioned  to  the  power  of  the 
sensations  that  assailed  him.  He  felt  within  him  a  vague 
immensity  of  longing  that  earth  could  not  satisfy.  He 
spent  his  days  on  outspread  wings,  longing  to  traverse 
the  luminous  fields  of  space  to  other  spheres  that  he 
knew  afar  by  intuitive  perception,  a  clear  and  hopeless 
knowledge.  His  soul  dried  up  within  him,  for  he 
hungered  and  thirsted  after  things  that  can  neither  be 
drunk  nor  eaten,  but  for  which  he  could  not  choose  but 
crave.  His  lips,  like  Melmoth's,  burned  with  desire  ;  he 
panted  for  the  unknown,  for  he  knew  all  things. 

The  mechanism  and  the  scheme  of  the  world 
was  apparent  to  him,  and  its  working  interested 
him  no  longer;  he  did  not  long  disguise  the  profound 
scorn  that  makes  of  a  man  of  extraordinary  powers  a 
sphinx  who  knows  everything  and  says  nothing,  and 
sees  all  things  with  an  unmoved  countenance.  He 
felt  not  the  slightest  wish  to  communicate  his  know- 
ledge to  other  men.  He  was  rich  with  all  the 
wealth  of  the  world,  with  one  effort  he  could  make  the 
circle  of  the  globe,  and  riches  and  power  were  meaning- 
less for  him.  He  felt  the  awful  melancholy  of  omnipo- 
tence, a  melancholy  which    Satan  and   God  relieve    by 


94  Melmoth  Reconciled 

the  exercise  of  infinite  power  in  mysterious  ways  known 
to  them  alone.  Castanier  had  not,  like  his  Master,  the 
inextinguishable  energy  of  hate  and  malice  ;  he  felt  that 
he  was  a  devil,  but  a  devil  whose  time  was  not  yet 
come,  while  Satan  is  a  devil  through  all  eternity,  and 
being  damned  beyond  redemption,  delights  to  stir  up  the 
world,  like  a  dung  heap,  with  his  triple  fork  and  to  thwart 
therein  the  designs  of  God.  But  Castanier,  for  his  mis- 
fortune, had  one  hope  left. 

If  in  a  moment  he  could  move  from  one  pole  to  the 
other  as  a  bird  springs  restlessly  from  side  to  side  in  its 
cage,  when,  like  the  bird,  he  had  crossed  his  prison,  he 
saw  the  vast  immensity  of  space  beyond  it.  That  vision 
of  the  Infinite  left  him  for  ever  unable  to  see  humanity 
and  its  affairs  as  other  men  saw  them.  The  insensate 
fools  who  long  for  the  power  of  the  Devil  gauge  its 
desirability  from  a  human  standpoint  ;  they  do  not  see 
that  with  the  Devil's  power  they  will  likewise  assume  his 
thoughts,  and  that  they  will  be  doomed  to  remain  as 
men  among  creatures  who  will  no  longer  understand 
them.  The  Nero  unknown  to  history  who  dreams  of 
setting  Paris  on  fire  for  his  private  entertainment,  like  an 
exhibition  of  a  burning  house  on  the  boards  of  a  theatre, 
does  not  suspect  that  if  he  had  that  power,  Paris  would 
become  for  him  as  little  interesting  as  an  ant-heap  by 
the  roadside  to  a  hurrying  passer-by.  The  circle  of  the 
sciences  was  for  Castanier  something  like  a  logogriph 
for  a  man  who  does  not  know  the  key  to  it.  Kings  and 
Governments  were  despicable  in  his  eyes.  His  great 
debauch  had  been  in  some  sort  a  deplorable  farewell 
to  his  life  as  a  man.  The  earth  had  grown  too 
narrow  for  him,  for  the  infernal  gifts  laid  bare  for  him 
the  secrets  of  creation — he  saw  the  cause  and  foresaw  its 
end.  He  was  shut  out  from  all  that  men  call  '  heaven  ' 
in  all  languages  under  the  sun  j  he  could  no  longer  think 
of  heaven. 

Then  he  came  to    understand  the  look  on  his   pre- 


Melmoth   Reconciled  95 

decessor's  face  and  the  drying  up  of  the  life  within  ;  then 
he  knew  all  that  was  meant  by  the  baffled  hope  that 
gleamed  in  Melmoth's  eyes  ;  he,  too,  knew  the  thirst 
that  burned  those  red  lips,  and  the  agony  of  a  continual 
struggle  between  two  natures  grown  to  giant  size. 
Even  yet  he  might  be  an  angel,  and  he  knew  himself  to 
be  a  fiend.  His  was  the  fate  of  a  sweet  and  gentle 
creature  that  a  wizard's  malice  has  imprisoned  in  a  mis- 
shapen form,  entrapping  it  by  a  pact,  so  that  another's 
will  must  set  it  free  from  its  detested  envelope. 

As  a  deception  only  increases  the  ardour  with  which  a 
man  of  really  great  nature  explores  the  infinite  of  senti- 
ment in  a  woman's  heart,  so  Castanier  awoke  to  find 
that  one  idea  lay  like  a  weight  upon  his  soul,  an  idea 
which  was  perhaps  the  key  to  loftier  spheres.  The  very 
fact  that  he  had  bartered  away  his  eternal  happiness  led 
him  to  dwell  in  thought  upon  the  future  of  those  who 
pray  and  believe.  On  the  morrow  of  his  debauch,  when 
he  entered  into  the  sober  possession  of  his  power,  this 
idea  made  him  feel  himself  a  prisoner  ;  he  knew  the 
burden  of  the  woe  that  poets,  and  prophets,  and 
great  oracles  of  faith  have  set  forth  for  us  in  such 
mighty  words  ;  he  felt  the  point  of  the  Flaming  Sword 
plunged  into  his  side,  and  hurried  in  search  of  Melmoth. 
What  had  become  of  his  predecessor  ? 

The  Englishman  was  living  in  a  mansion  in  the  Rue 
Pérou,  near  Saint-Sulpice — a  glooaiy,  dark,  damp,  and 
cold  abode.  The  Rue  Férou  itself  is  one  of  the  most 
dismal  streets  in  Paris  ;  it  has  a  north  aspect  like  all  the 
streets  that  lie  at  light  angles  to  the  left  bank  of  the 
Seine,  and  the  houses  are  in  keeping  with  the  site.  As 
Castanier  stood  on  the  threshold  he  found  that  the  door 
itself,  like  the  vaulted  roof,  was  hung  with  black  i  rows 
of  lighted  tapers  shone  brilliantly  as  though  some  king 
were  lying  in  state  ;  and  a  priest  stood  on  either  side  of 
a  catafalque  that  had  been  raised  there. 

*  Ther*"  is  no  need  to  ask  why  you  have  come,  sir,'  the 


g6  Melmoth  Reconciled 

old  hall  porter  said  to  Castanier  j  *  you  are  so  like  our  poor 
dear  master  that  is  gone.  But  if  you  are  his  brother,  you 
have  come  too  late  to  bid  him  good-bye.  The  good  gentle- 
man died  the  night  before  last.' 

*  How  did  he  die  ?  '  Castanier  asked  of  one  of  the 
priests. 

'  Set  your  mind  at  rest,'  said  an  old  priest  ;  he  partly 
raised  as  he  spoke  the  black  pall  that  covered  the  catafalque. 

Castanier,  looking  at  him,  saw  one  of  those  faces  that 
faith  has  made  sublime  ;  the  soul  seemed  to  shine  forth 
from  every  line  of  it,  bringing  light  and  warmth  for 
other  men,  kindled  by  the  unfailing  charity  within. 
This  was  Sir  John  Melmoth's  confessor. 

*  Your  brother  made  an  end  that  men  may  envy,  and 
that  must  rejoice  the  angels.  Do  you  know  what  joy 
there  is  in  heaven  over  a  sinner  that  repents  ?  His  tears 
of  penitence,  excited  by  grace,  flowed  without  ceasing  j 
death  alone  checked  them.  The  Holy  Spirit  dwelt  in 
him.  His  burning  words,  full  of  lively  faith,  were 
worthy  of  the  Prophet-King.  If,  in  the  course  of  my 
life,  I  have  never  heard  a  more  dreadful  confession  than 
from  the  lips  of  this  Irish  gentleman,  I  have  likewise 
never  heard  such  fervent  and  passionate  prayers.  How- 
ever great  the  measures  of  his  sins  may  have  been,  his 
repentance  has  filled  the  abyss  to  overflowing.  The 
hand  of  God  was  visibly  stretched  out  above  him,  for  he 
was  completely  changed,  there  was  such  heavenly 
beauty  in  his  face.  The  hard  eyes  were  softened  by 
tears  ;  the  resonant  voice  that  struck  terror  into  those 
who  heard  it  took  the  tender  and  compassionate  tones  of 
those  who  themselves  have  passed  through  deep  humilia- 
tion. He  so  edified  those  who  heard  his  words,  that 
some  who  had  felt  drawn  to  see  the  spectacle  of  a 
Christian's  death  fell  on  their  knees  as  he  spoke  of 
heavenly  things,  and  of  the  infinite  glory  of  God,  and  gave 
thanks  and  praise  to  Him.  If  he  is  leaving  no  worldly 
wealth    to  his  family,  no  family   can  possess  a  greater 


Melmoth  Reconciled  97 

blessing  than  this  that  he  surely  gained  for  them,  a  soul 
among  the  blessed,  who  will  watch  over  you  all  and 
direct  you  in  the  path  to  heaven.' 

These  words  made  such  a  vivid  impression  upon 
Castanier  that  he  instantly  hurried  from  the  house 
to  the  Church  of  Saint-Sulpice,  obeying  what  might  be 
called  a  decree  of  fate.  Melmoth's  repentance  had 
stupefied  him. 

At  that  time,  on  certain  mornings  in  the  week,  a 
preacher,  famed  for  his  eloquence,  was  wont  to  hold  con- 
ferences, in  the  course  of  which  he  demonstrated  the 
truths  of  the  Catholic  faith  for  the  youth  of  a  genera- 
tion proclaimed  to  be  indifferent  in  matters  of  belief  by 
another  voice  no  less  eloquent  than  his  own.  The  con- 
ference had  been  put  off  to  a  later  hour  on  account  of 
Melmoth's  funeral,  so  Castanier  arrived  just  as  the  great 
preacher  was  epitomising  the  proofs  of  a  future  existence 
of  happiness  with  all  the  charm  of  eloquence  and  force  of 
expression  which  have  made  him  famous.  The  seeds  of 
divine  doctrine  fell  into  a  soil  prepared  for  them  in  the 
old  dragoon,  into  whom  the  Devil  had  glided.  Indeed, 
if  there  is  a  phenomenon  well  attested  by  experience,  is 
it  not  the  spiritual  phenomenon  commonly  called  'the 
faith  of  the  peasant  '  ?  The  strength  of  belief  varies 
inversely  with  the  amount  of  use  that  a  man  has  made 
of  his  reasoning  faculties.  Simple  people  and  soldiers 
belong  to  the  unreasoning  class.  Those  who  have 
marched  through  life  beneath  the  banner  of  instinct  are 
far  more  ready  to  receive  the  light  than  minds  and 
hearts  overwearied  with  the  world's  sophistries. 

Castanier  had  the  southern  temperament  ;  he  had 
joined  the  army  as  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  had  followed  the 
French  flag  till  he  was  nearly  forty  years  old.  As  a 
common  trooper,  he  had  fought  day  and  night,  and  day 
after  day,  and,  as  in  duty  bound,  had  thought  of  his 
horse  first,  and  of  himself  afterwards.  While  he  served  his 
military  apprenticeship,  therefore,  he  had  but  little  leisure 


98  Melmoth  Reconciled 

in  which  to  reflect  on  the  destiny  of  man,  and  when  he 
became  an  officer  he  had  his  men  to  think  of.  He  had 
been  swept  from  battlefield  to  battlefield,  but  he  had 
never  thought  of  what  comes  after  death.  A  soldier's 
life  does  not  demand  much  thinking.  Those  who 
cannot  understand  the  lofty  political  ends  involved  and  the 
interests  of  nation  and  nation  ;  who  cannot  grasp  poHtical 
schemes  as  well  as  plans  of  campaign,  and  combine  the 
science  of  the  tactician  with  that  of  the  administrator, 
are  bound  to  live  in  a  state  of  ignorance  ;  the  most  boorish 
peasant  in  the  most  backward  district  in  France  is  scarcely 
in  a  worse  case.  Such  men  as  these  bear  the  brunt  of 
war,  yield  passive  obedience  to  the  brain  that  directs 
them,  and  strike  down  the  men  opposed  to  them  as  the 
woodcutter  fells  timber  in  the  forest.  Violent  physical 
exertion  is  succeeded  by  times  of  inertia,  when  they 
repair  the  waste.  They  fight  and  drink,  fight  and  eat, 
fight  and  sleep,  that  they  may  the  better  deal  hard 
blows  ;  the  powers  of  the  mind  are  not  greatly  exercised 
in  this  turbulent  round  of  existence,  and  the  character  is 
as  simple  as  heretofore. 

When  the  men  who  have  shown  such  energy  on  the 
battlefield  return  to  ordinary  civilisation,  most  of  those 
who  have  not  risen  to  high  rank  seem  to  have  acquired 
no  ideas,  and  to  have  no  aptitude,  no  capacity,  for  grasping 
new  ideas.  .To  the  utter  amazement  of  a  younger 
generation,  those  who  made  our  armies  so  glorious  and 
so  terrible  are  as  simple  as  children,  and  as  slow-witted 
as  a  clerk  at  his  worst,  and  the  captain  of  a  thunder- 
ing squadron  is  scarcely  fit  to  keep  a  merchant's 
day-book.  Old  soldiers  of  this  stamp,  therefore,  being 
innocent  of  any  attempt  to  use  their  reasoning  faculties, 
act  upon  their  strongest  impulses.  Castanier's  crime 
was  one  of  those  matters  that  raise  so  many  questions, 
that,  in  order  to  debate  about  it,  a  moralist  might  call  for 
its  '  discussion  by  clauses,'  to  make  use  of  a  parliamentary 
expression. 


Melmoth  Reconciled  99 

Passion  had  counselled  the  crime  ;  the  cruelly  irresistible 
power  of  feminine  witchery  had  driven  him  to  commit 
it  ;  no  man  can  say  of  himself,  *  I  will  never  do  that,' 
when  a  siren  joins  in  the  combat  and  throws  her  spells 
over  him. 

So  the  word  of  life  fell  upon  a  conscience  newly 
awakened  to  the  truths  of  religion  which  the  French 
Revolution  and  a  soldier's  career  had  forced  Castanier  to 
neglect.  The  solemn  words,  '  You  will  be  happy  or 
miserable  for  all  eternity  !  '  made  but  the  more  terrible 
impression  upon  him,  because  he  had  exhausted  earth  and 
shaken  it  like  a  barren  tree  ;  because  his  desires  could 
effect  all  things,  so  that  it  was  enough  that  any  spot  in 
earth  or  heaven  should  be  forbidden  him,  and  he  forth- 
with thought  of  nothing  else.  If  it  were  allowable  to 
compare  such  great  things  with  social  follies,  Castanier's 
position  was  not  unlike  that  of  a  banker  who,  finding 
that  his  all-powerful  millions  cannot  obtain  for  him  an 
entrance  into  the  society  of  the  noblesse,  must  set 
his  heart  upon  entering  that  circle,  and  all  the  social 
privileges  that  he  has  already  acquired  are  as  nothing  in 
his  eyes  from  the  moment  when  he  discovers  that  a 
smgle  one  is  lacking. 

Here  was  a  man  more  powerful  than  all  the  kings  on 
earth  put  together  ;  a  man  who,  like  Satan,  could  wrestle 
with  God  Himself;  leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars 
in  the  Church  of  Saint-Sulpice,  weighed  down  by  the 
feelings  and  thoughts  that  oppressed  him,  and  absorbed 
in  the  thought  of  a  Future,  the  same  thought  that  had 
engulfed  Melmoth. 

'  He  was  very  happy,  was  Melmoth  !  '  cried  Castanier. 
*  He  died  in  the  certain  knowledge  that  he  would  go  to 
heaven.' 

In  a  moment  the  greatest  possible  change  had  been 
wrought  in  the  cashier's  ideas.  For  several  days  he  had 
been  a  devil,  now  he  was  nothing  but  a  man  ;  an  image 
of  the  fallen  Adam,  of  the  sacred  tradition  embodied  in 


loo  Melmoth  Reconciled 

all  cosmogonies.  But  while  he  had  thus  shrunk  to  man's 
he  retained  a  germ  of  greatness,  he  had  been  steeped  in 
the  Infinite.  The  power  of  hell  had  revealed  the 
divine  power.  He  thirsted  for  heaven  as  he  had  never 
thirsted  after  the  pleasures  of  earth,  that  are  so  soon 
exhausted.  The  enjoyments  which  the  fiend  promises 
are  but  the  enjoyments  of  earth  on  a  larger  scale,  but  to 
the  joys  of  heaven  there  is  no  limit.  He  believed  in 
God,  and  the  spell  that  gave  him  the  treasures  of  the 
world  was  as  nothing  to  him  now  ;  the  treasures  them- 
selves seemed  to  him  as  contemptible  as  pebbles  to  an 
admirer  of  diamonds  ;  they  were  but  gewgaws  compared 
with  the  eternal  glories  of  the  other  life.  A  curse  lay,  he 
thought,  on  all  things  that  came  to  him  from  this  source. 
He  sounded  dark  depths  of  painful  thought  as  he  listened 
to  the  service  performed  for  Melmoth.  The  Dies  ira 
filled  him  with  awe  ;  he  felt  all  the  grandeur  of  that  cry 
of  a  repentant  soul  trembling  before  the  Throne  of  God. 
The  Holy  Spirit,  like  a  devouring  flame,  passed  through 
him  as  fire  consumes  straw. 

The  tears  were  falling  from  his  eyes  when — '  Are  you 
a  relation  of  the  dead  ?  '  the  beadle  asked  him. 

*  I  am  his  heir,'  Castanier  answered. 

*  Give  something  for  the  expenses  of  the  services  !  * 
cried  the  man. 

*  No,*  said  the  cashier.   (The  Devil's  money  should  not 
go  to  the  Church.) 

'  For  the  poor  !  ' 

*No.' 

*For  repairing  the  Church  !' 

*No.' 

*The  Lady  Chapel!' 

'No.' 

*  For  the  schools  !  ' 
<No.' 

Castanier  went,  not   caring  to  expose  himself  to  the 
sour  looks  that  the  irritated  functionaries  gave  him. 


Melmoth  Reconciled  loi 

Outside,  in  the  street,  he  looked  up  at  the  Church  of 
Saint-Sulpice.  '  What  made  people  build  the  giant 
cathedrals  I  have  seen  in  every  country  ?  '  he  asked  him- 
self. '  The  feeling  shared  so  widely  throughout  all  time 
must  surely  be  based  upon  something.' 

'  Something  !  Do  you  call  God  something  ?  '  cried  his 
conscience.     'God  !  God  !  God  !  .  .  .' 

The  word  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  by  an  inner 
voice,  till  it  overwhelmed  him  ;  but  his  feeling  of 
terror  subsided  as  he  heard  sweet  distant  sounds  of 
music  that  he  had  caught  faintly  before.  They  were 
singing  in  the  church,  he  thought,  and  his  eyes 
scanned  the  great  doorway.  But  as  he  listened  more 
closely,  the  sounds  poured  upon  him  from  all  sides;  he 
looked  round  the  square,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  any 
musicians.  The  melody  brought  visions  of  a  distant 
heaven  and  far-off  gleams  of  hope  ;  but  it  also  quickened 
the  remorse  that  had  set  the  lost  soul  in  a  ferment.  He 
went  on  his  way  through  Paris,  walking  as  men  walk 
who  are  crushed  beneath  the  burden  of  their  sorrow, 
seeing  everything  with  unseeing  eyes,  loitering  like  an 
idler,  stopping  without  cause,  muttering  to  himself,  care- 
less of  the  traffic,  making  no  effort  to  avoid  a  blow  from 
a  plank  of  timber. 

Imperceptibly  repentance  brought  him  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  divine  grace  that  soothes  while  it  bruises 
the  heart  so  terribly.  His  face  came  to  wear  a  look  of 
Melmoth,  something  great,  with  a  trace  of  madness  in 
the  greatness.  A  look  of  dull  and  hopeless  distress,  mingled 
with  the  excited  eagerness  of  hope,  and,  beneath  it  all,  a 
gnawing  sense  of  loathing  for  all  that  the  world  can  give. 
The  humblest  of  prayers  lurked  in  the  eyes  that  saw  with 
such  dreadful  clearness.  His  power  was  the  measure  of 
his  anguish.  His  body  was  bowed  down  by  the  fearful 
storm  that  shook  his  soul,  as  the  tall  pines  bend  before 
the  blast.  Like  his  predecessor,  he  could  not  refuse  to 
bear  the  burden  of  life  j  he  was  afraid  to  die  while  he 


I02  Melmoth  Reconciled 

bore  the  yoke  of  hell.  The  torment  grew  intoler- 
able. 

At  last,  one  morning,  he  bethought  himself  how  that 
Melmoth  (now  among  the  blessed)  had  made  the  proposal 
of  an  exchange,  and  how  that  he  had  accepted  it^  others, 
doubtless,  would  follow  his  example  ;  for  in  an  age 
proclaimed,  by  the  inheritors  of  the  eloquence  of  the 
Fathers  of  the  Church,  to  be  fatally  indifferent  to 
religion,  it  should  be  easy  to  find  a  man  who  would 
accept  the  conditions  of  the  contract  in  order  to  prove 
its  advantages. 

*  There  is  one  place  where  you  can  learn  what  kings 
will  fetch  in  the  market  ;  where  nations  are  weighed  in 
the  balance  and  systems  appraised;  where  the  value  of  a 
government  is  stated  in  terms  of  the  five-franc  piece; 
where  ideas  and  beliefs  have  their  price,  and  everything 
is  discounted;  where  God  Himself,  in  a  manner,  borrows 
on  the  security  of  His  revenue  of  souls,  for  the  Pope  has 
a  running  account  there.  Is  it  not  there  that  I  should 
go  to  traffick  in  souls  ?  ' 

Castanier  went  quite  joyously  on  'Change,  thinking 
that  it  would  be  as  easy  to  buy  a  soul  as  to  invest  money 
in  the  Funds.  Any  ordinary  person  would  have  feared 
ridicule,  but  Castanier  knew  by  experience  that  a  des- 
perate man  takes  everything  seriously.  A  prisoner  lying 
under  sentence  of  death  would  listen  to  the  madman  who 
should  tell  him  that  by  pronouncing  some  gibberish  he 
could  escape  through  the  keyhole  ;  for  suffering  is  credu- 
lous, and  clings  to  an  idea  until  it  fails,  as  the  swimmer 
borne  along  by  the  current  clings  to  the  branch  that 
snaps  in  his  hand. 

Towards  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  Castanier  appeared 
among  the  little  knots  of  men  who  were  transacting 
private  business  after  'Change.  He  was  personally  known 
to  some  of  the  brokers;  and  while  affecting  to  be  in  search 
of  an  acquaintance,  he  managed  to  pick  up  the  current 
gossip  and  rumours  of  failure. 


Melmoth  Reconciled  103 

*  Catch  me  negotiating  bills  for  Claparon  &  Co.,  my 
Doy.  The  bank  collector  went  round  to  return  their 
acceptances  to  them  this  morning,'  said  a  fat  banker  in 
his  outspoken  way.  *  If  you  have  any  of  their  paper, 
look  out.' 

Claparon  was  in  the  building,  in  deep  consultation  with 
a  man  well  known  for  the  ruinous  rate  at  which  he  lent 
money.  Castanier  went  forthwith  in  search  of  the  said 
Claparon,  a  merchant  who  had  a  reputation  for  taking 
heavy  risks  that  meant  wealth  or  utter  ruin.  The 
money-lender  walked  away  as  Castanier  came  up.  A 
gesture  betrayed  the  speculator's  despair. 

'  Well,  Claparon,  the  Bank  wants  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  of  you,  and  it  is  four  o'clock  ;  the  thing  is  known, 
and  it  is  too  late  to  arrange  your  little  failure  comfortably,' 
said  Castanier. 

'Sir!' 

'  Speak  lower,'  the  cashier  went  on.  *  How  if  I  were 
to  propose  a  piece  of  business  that  would  bring  you  in  as 
much  money  as  you  require  ?' 

'  It  would  not  discharge  my  liabilities  ;  every  business 
that  I  ever  heard  of  wants  a  little  time  to  simmer  in.' 

'I  know  of  something  that  will  set  you  straight  in 
a  moment,'  answered  Castanier  ;  '  but  first  you  would 
have  to ' 

'  Do  what  ?  ' 

'  Sell  your  share  of  paradise.  It  is  a  matter  of  business 
like  anything  else,  isn't  it  ?  We  all  hold  shares  in  the 
great  Speculation  of  Eternity.' 

'  I  tell  you  this,'  said  Claparon  angrily,  *  that  I  am 
just  the  man  to  lend  you  a  slap  in  the  face.  When  a 
man  is  in  trouble,  it  is  no  time  to  play  silly  jokes  on  him.' 

'  I  am  talking  seriously,'  said  Castanier,  and  he  drew  a 
bundle  of  notes  from  his  pocket. 

'  In  the  first  place,'  said  Claparon,  '  I  am  not  going  to 
sell  my  soul  to  the  Devil  for  a  trifle.  I  want  five  hundred 
thousand  francs  before  I  strike ' 


Î04  Melmoth  Reconciled 

'  Who  talks  of  stinting  you  ?'  asked  Castanier,  cutting 
him  short.  '  You  should  have  more  gold  than  you  could 
stow  in  the  cellars  of  the  Bank  of  France.' 

He  held  out  a  handful  of  notes.    That  decided  Claparon. 

*  Done,'  he  cried  ;  '  but  how  is  the  bargain  to  be 
made  ?  ' 

'  Let  us  go  over  yonder,  no  one  is  standing  there,'  said 
Castanier,  pointing  to  a  corner  of  the  court. 

Claparon  and  his  tempter  exchanged  a  few  words,  with 
their  faces  turned  to  the  wall.  None  of  the  onlookers 
guessed  the  nature  of  this  by-play,  though  their  curiosity 
was  keenly  excited  by  the  strange  gestures  of  the  two 
contracting  parties.  When  Castanier  returned,  there  was 
a  sudden  outburst  of  amazed  exclamation.  As  in  the 
Assembly  where  the  least  event  immediately  attracts 
attention,  all  faces  were  turned  to  the  two  men  who  had 
caused  the  sensation,  and  a  shiver  passed  through  all 
beholders  at  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  them. 

The  men  who  form  the  moving  crowd  that  fills  the 
Stock  Exchange  are  soon  known  to  each  other  by  sight. 
They  watch  each  other  like  players  round  a  card-table. 
Some  shrewd  observers  can  tell  how  a  man  will  play 
and  the  condition  of  his  exchequer  from  a  survey  of 
his  face  ;  and  the  Stock  Exchange  is  simply  a  vast 
card-table.  Every  one,  therefore,  had  noticed  Claparon 
and  Castanier.  .  The  latter  (like  the  Irishman  before  him) 
had  been  muscular  and  powerful,  his  eyes  were  full  of 
light,  his  colour  high.  The  dignity  and  power  in  his 
face  had  struck  awe  into  them  all;  they  wondered  how 
old  Castanier  had  come  by  it  ;  and  now  they  beheld 
Castanier  divested  of  his  power,  shrunken,  wrinkled, 
aged,  and  feeble.  He  had  drawn  Claparon  out  of  the 
crowd  with  the  energy  of  a  sick  man  in  a  fever  fit  ;  he 
had  looked  like  an  opium-eater  during  the  brief  period 
of  excitement  that  the  drug  can  give;  now,  on  his  return, 
he  seemed  to  be  in  the  condition  of  utter  exhaustion  in 
which  the  patient  dies  after  the  fever  departs,  or  to  be 


Melmoth  Reconciled  105 

suffering  from  the  horrible  prostration  that  follows  on 
excessive  indulgence  in  the  delights  of  narcotics.  The 
infernal  power  that  had  upheld  him  through  his  debauches 
had  left  him,  and  the  body  was  left  unaided  and  alone  to 
endure  the  agony  of  remorse  and  the  heavy  burden  of 
sincere  repentance.  Claparon's  troubles  every  one  could 
guess  ;  but  Claparon  reappeared,  on  the  other  hand,  with 
sparkling  eyes,  holding  his  head  high  with  the  pride  of 
Lucifer.  The  crisis  had  passed  from  the  one  man  to  the 
other. 

*  Now  you  can  drop  off  with  an  easy  mind,  old  man,' 
said  Claparon  to  Castanier. 

'  For  pity's  sake,  send  for  a  cab  and  for  a  priest  ;  send 
for  the  curate  of  Saint-Sulpice  !  '  answered  the  old  dragoon, 
sinking  down  upon  the  kerbstone. 

The  words  *  a  priest  '  reached  the  ears  of  several  people, 
and  produced  uproarious  jeering  among  the  stockbrokers, 
for  faith  with  these  gentlemen  means  a  belief  that  a  scrap 
of  paper  called  a  mortgage  represents  an  estate,  and  the 
List  of  Fundholders  is  their  Bible. 

'  Shall  I  have  time  to  repent  ?  '  said  Castanier  to  himself, 
in  a  piteous  voice,  that  impressed  Claparon. 

A  cab  carried  away  the  dying  man  ;  the  speculator 
went  to  the  bank  at  once  to  meet  his  bills  ;  and  the 
momentary  sensation  produced  upon  the  throng  of  busi- 
ness men  by  the  sudden  change  on  the  two  faces,  vanished 
like  the  furrow  cut  by  a  ship's  keel  in  the  sea.  News  of 
the  greatest  importance  kept  the  attention  of  the  world 
of  commerce  on  the  alert  ;  and  when  commercial  interests 
are  at  stake,  Moses  might  appear  with  his  two  luminous 
horns,  and  his  coming  would  scarcely  receive  the  honours 
of  a  pun  j  the  gentlemen  whose  business  it  is  to  write  the 
Market  Reports  would  ignore  his  existence. 

When  Claparon  had  made  his  payments,  fear  seized 
upon  him.  There  was  no  mistake  about  his  power.  He 
went  on  'Change  again,  and  offered  his  bargain  to  other 
men  in  embarrassed  circumstances.     The  Devil's  bond. 


ïo6  Melmoth  Reconciled 

*  together  with  the  rights,  easements,  and  privileges  apper- 
taining thereunto,' — to  use  the  expression  of  the  notary 
who  succeeded  Claparon,  changed  hands  for  the  sum  of 
seven  hundred  thousand  francs.  The  notary  in  his  turn 
parted  with  the  agreement  with  the  Devil  for  five  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  a  building  contractor  in  difficulties, 
who  likewise  was  rid  of  it  to  an  iron  merchant  in  con- 
sideration of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns.  In  fact,  by 
five  o'clock  people  had  ceased  to  believe  in  the  strange 
contract,  and  purchasers  v/ere  lacking  for  want  of  con- 
fidence. 

At  half-past  five  the  holder  of  the  bond  was  a  house- 
painter,  who  was  lounging  by  the  door  of  the  building  in 
the  Rue  Feydeau,  where  at  that  time  stockbrokers  tem- 
porarily congregated.  The  house-painter,  simple  fellow, 
could  not  think  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  He 
'  felt  all  anyhow  '  j  so  he  told  his  wife  when  he  went 
home. 

The  Rue  Feydeau,  as  idlers  about  town  are  aware,  is 
a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  youths  who  for  lack  of  a  mistress 
bestow  their  ardent  affection  upon  the  whole  sex.  On 
the  first  floor  of  the  most  rigidly  respectable  domicile 
therein  dwelt  one  of  those  exquisite  creatures  whom  it  has 
pleased  heaven  to  endow  with  the  rarest  and  most  sur- 
passing beauty.  As  it  is  impossible  that  they  should  all 
be  duchesses  or  queens  (since  there  are  many  more  pretty 
women  in  the  world  than  titles  and  thrones  for  them  to 
adorn),  they  are  content  to  make  a  stockbroker  or  a 
banker  happy  at  a  fixed  price.  To  this  good-natured 
beauty,  Euphrasia  by  name,  an  unbounded  ambition  had 
led  a  notary's  clerk  to  aspire.  In  short,  the  second  clerk 
in  the  office  of  Maître  Crottat,  notary,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  as  youth  at  two-and-twenty  can  fall  in  love. 
The  scrivener  would  have  murdered  the  Pope  and 
run  amuck  through  the  whole  sacred  college  to  procure 
the  miserable  sum  of  a  hundred  louis  to  pay  for  a  shawl 
which  had  turned  Euphrasia's  head,  at  which  price  her 


Melmoth  Reconciled  107 

waiting- woman  had  promised  that  Euphrasia  should  be 
his,  'I'he  infatuated  youth  walked  to  and  fro  under 
Madam  Euphrasia's  windows,  like  the  polar  bears  in  their 
cage  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  with  his  right  hand  thrust 
beneath  his  waistcoat  in  the  region  of  the  heart,  which 
he  was  fit  to  tear  from  his  bosom,  but  as  yet  he  had  only 
wrenched  at  the  elastic  of  his  braces. 

*  What  can  one  do  to  raise  ten  thousand  francs  ?  '  he 
asked  himself.  'Shall  I  make  off  with  the  money  that  I 
must  pay  on  the  registration  of  that  conveyance  ?  Good 
heavens  !  my  loan  would  not  ruin  the  purchaser,  a  man 
with  seven  millions  !  And  then  next  day  I  would  fling 
myself  at  his  feet  and  say,  "  I  have  taken  ten  thousand 
francs  belonging  to  you,  sir  ;  I  am  twenty-two  years  of 
age,  and  I  am  in  love  with  Euphrasia — that  is  my  story. 
My  father  is  rich,  he  will  pay  you  back  ;  do  not  ruin 
me  !  Have  not  you  yourself  been  twenty-two  years  old 
and  madly  in  love  ?  "  But  these  beggarly  landowners 
have  no  souls  !  He  would  be  quite  likely  to  give  me  up 
to  the  public  prosecutor,  instead  of  taking  pity  upon 
me.  Good  God  !  if  it  were  only  possible  to  sell  your 
soul  to  the  Devil  !  But  there  is  neither  a  God  nor  a 
Devil  ;  it  is  all  nonsense  out  of  nursery  tales  and  old  wives' 
talk.     What  shall  I  do  ?  ' 

'  If  you  have  a  mind  to  sell  your  soul  to  the  Devil,  sir,' 
said  the  house-painter,  who  had  overheard  something 
that  the  clerk  let  fall,  '  you  can  have  the  ten  thousand 
francs.' 

'  And  Euphrasia  !  '  cried  the  clerk,  as  he  struck  a 
bargain  with  the  devil  that  inhabited  the  house-painter. 

The  pact  concluded,  the  frantic  clerk  went  to  find  the 
shawl,  and  mounted  Madam  Euphrasia's  staircase  ;  and 
as  (literally)  the  devil  was  in  him,  he  did  not  come 
down  for  twelve  days,  drowning  the  thought  of  hell 
and  of  his  privileges  in  twelve  days  of  love  and  riot  and 
forgetfulness,  for  which  he  had  bartered  away  all  his 
hopes  of  a  paradise  to  come. 


io8  Melmoth  Reconciled 

And  in  this  way  the  secret  of  the  vast  power  discovered 
and  acquired  by  the  Irishman,  the  offspring  of  Mathurin's 
brain,  was  lost  to  mankind  ;  and  the  various  OrientaHsts, 
Mystics,  and  Archaeologists  who  take  an  interest  in  these 
matters  were  unable  to  hand  down  to  posterity  the  proper 
method  of  invoking  the  Devil,  for  the  following  sufficient 
reasons: — 

On  the  thirteenth  day  after  these  frenzied  nuptials 
the  wretched  clerk  lay  on  a  pallet  bed  in  a  garret  in  his 
master's  house  in  the  Rue  Saint-Honore.  Shame,  the 
stupid  goddess  who  dares  not  behold  herself,  had  taken 
possession  of  the  young  man.  He  had  fallen  ill;  he 
would  nurse  himself  j  misjudged  the  quantity  of  a 
remedy  devised  by  the  skill  of  a  practitioner  well  known 
on  the  walls  of  Paris,  and  succumbed  to  the  effects  of  an 
overdose  of  mercury.  His  corpse  was  as  black  as  a 
mole's  back.  A  devil  had  left  unmistakable  traces  of 
its  passage  there  j  could  it  have  been  Ashtaroth  ? 

'  The  estimable  youth  to  whom  you  refer  has  been 
carried  away  to  the  planet  Mercury,'  said  the  head  clerk 
to  a  German  demonologist  who  came  to  investigate  the 
matter  at  first  hand. 

*I  am  quite  prepared  to  believe  it,'  answered  the 
Teuton. 

*  Oh  !  ' 

'Yes,  sir,'  returned  the  other.  'The  opinion  you 
advance  coincides  with  the  very  words  of  Jacob  Boehme. 
In  the  forty-eighth  proposition  of  The  Threefold  Life 
of  Man  he  says  that  "  if  God  hath  brought  all  things 
to  pass  with  a  let  there  be,  the  fiat  is  the  secret 
matrix  which  comprehends  and  apprehends  the  nature 
which  is  formed  by  the  spirit  born  of  Mercury  and  of 
God."  ' 

'  What  do  you  say,  sir  ?  ' 

The  German  delivered  his  quotation  afresh. 

'  We  do  not  know  it,'  said  the  clerks. 


Melmoth  Reconciled  109 

*  Fiat  ?  .  .  :  said  a  clerk.     *  Fiat  lux  !  ' 

*You  can  verify  the  citation  for  yourselves,' said  the 
German.  '  You  w'xW  find  the  passage  in  the  Treatise  of 
the  Threefold  Life  of  Man,  page  75  ;  the  edition  was 
published  by  M.  Migneret  in  1809.  It  was  translated 
into  French  by  a  philosopher  who  had  a  great  admiration 
for  the  famous  shoemaker.' 

'  Oh  !  he  was  a  shoemaker,  was  he  ?  '  said  the  head 
clerk. 

*  In  Prussia,'  said  the  German. 

*  Did  he  work  for  the  King  of  Prussia  ?  '  inquired  a 
Boeotian  of  a  second  clerk. 

'  He  must  have  vamped  up  his  prose,'  said  a  third. 

*  That  man  is  colossal  !  '  cried  the  fourth,  pointing  to 
the  Teuton. 

That  gentleman,  though  a  demonologist  of  the  first 
rank,  did  not  know  the  amount  of  devilry  to  be  found  in 
a  notary's  clerk.  He  went  away  without  the  least  idea 
that  they  were  making  game  of  him,  and  fully  under  the 
impression  that  the  young  fellows  regarded  Boehme  as  a 
colossal  genius. 

'Education  is  making  strides  in  France,'  said  he  to 
himself. 

Paris,  May  6,  1835. 


THE    MARANAS 

To  Madame  la  Cofntesse  Merlin 

In  spite  of  the  discipline  enforced  by  Marshal  Suchet  \v 
the  division  he  commanded  in  the  Peninsular  War,  all 
his  efforts  could  not  restrain  an  outbreak  of  license  and 
tumult  at  the  talcing  of  Taragona.  Indeed,  according 
to  trustworthy  military  authorities,  the  intoxication  of 
victory  resulted  in  something  very  hke  a  sack  of  the 
town.  Pillage  was  promptly  put  down  by  the  Marshal  ; 
and  as  soon  as  order  was  restored,  a  commandant  ap- 
pointed, the  military  administrators  appeared  upon  the 
scene,  and  the  town  began  to  wear  a  nondescript  aspect 
— the  organisation  was  French,  but  the  Spanish  popula- 
tion was  left  free  to  follow  in  petto  its  own  national 
customs.  It  would  be  a  task  of  no  little  difficulty  to 
determine  the  exact  duration  of  the  pillage,  but  its  cause 
(like  that  of  most  sublunary  events)  is  sufficiently  easy 
to  discover. 

In  the  Marshal's  division  of  the  army  there  was  a 
regiment  composed  almost  entirely  of  Italians,  commanded 
by  a  certain  Colonel  Eugène,  a  man  of  extraordinary 
valour,  a  second  Murat,  who,  having  come  to  the  trade 
of  war  too  late,  had  gained  no  Grand  Duchy  of  Berg, 
no  Kingdom  of  Naples,  nor  a  ball  through  the  heart 
at  Pizzo.  But  if  he  had  received  no  crown,  his  chances 
of  receiving  bullets  were  admirably  good  ;  and  it  would 
have  been  in  no  wise  astonishing  if  he  had  had  more  than 

one  of  them.     This  regiment  was  made  up   from  the 
xio 


The  Maranas  m 

wrecks  of  the  Italian  Legion,  which  is  in  Italy  very 
much  what  the  colonial  battalions  are  in  France. 
Stationed  in  the  isle  of  Elba,  it  had  provided  an  honour- 
able way  out  of  the  difficulty  experienced  by  families 
with  regard  to  the  future  of  unmanageable  sons,  as  well 
as  a  career  for  those  great  men  spoiled  in  the  making, 
whom  society  is  too  ready  to  brand  as  mauvais  sujets. 
All  of  them  were  men  misunderstood,  for  the  most  part — 
men  who  may  become  heroes  if  a  woman's  smile  raises 
them  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  glory  j  or  terrible  after 
an  orgy,  when  some  ugly  suggestion,  dropped  by  a  boon 
companion,  has  gained  possession  of  their  minds. 

Napoleon  had  enrolled  these  men  of  energy  in  theSixtt 
Regiment  of  the  line,  hoping  to  metamorphose  them  into 
generals,  with  due  allowance  for  the  gaps  to  be  made  in 
their  ranks  by  bullets  ;  but  the  Emperor's  estimate  of  the 
ravages  of  death  proved  more  correct  than  the  rest  of  his 
calculations.  It  was  often  decimated,  but  its  character 
remained  the  same  ;  and  the  Sixth  acquired  a  name  for 
splendid  bravery  in  the  field,  and  the  very  worst  reputation 
in  private  life. 

These  Italians  had  lost  their  captain  during  the  siege 
of  Taragona.  He  was  the  famous  Bianchi  who  laid  a 
wager  during  the  campaign  that  he  would  eat  a  Spanish 
sentinel's  heart — and  won  his  bet.  The  story  of  this 
pleasantry  of  the  camp  is  told  elsewhere  in  the  Scenes  de  la 
Vie  Parisienne  \  therein  will  be  found  certain  details  which 
corroborate  what  has  been  said  here  concerning  the 
legion.  Bianchi,  the  prince  of  those  fiends  incarnate  who 
had  earned  the  double  reputation  of  the  regiment,  pos- 
sessed the  chivalrous  sense  of  honour  which,  in  the  army, 
covers  a  multitude  of  the  wildest  excesses.  In  a  word, 
had  he  lived  a  few  centuries  earlier,  he  would  have  made  a 
gallant  buccaneer.  Only  a  {&^  days  before  he  fell,  he 
had  distinguished  himself  by  such  conspicuous  courage  in 
action,  that  the  Marshal  sought  to  recognise  it.  Bianchi 
had   refused   tjromotion,  pension,  or  a  fresh  decoration, 


112  The  Maranas 

and  asked  as  a  favour  to  be  allowed  to  mount  the  first 
scaling-ladder  at  the  assault  of  Taragona  as  his  sole 
reward.  The  Marshal  granted  the  request,  and  forgot 
his  promise  ;  but  Bianchi  himself  put  him  in  mind  of  it 
and  of  Bianchi,  for  the  berserker  Captain  was  the  first  to 
plant  the  flag  of  France  upon  the  wall  ;  and  there  he  fell, 
killed  by  a  monk. 

This  historical  digression  is  necessary  to  explain  how 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  Sixth  Regiment  of  the  line  was  the 
first  to  enter  Taragona,  and  how  the  tumult,  sufficiently 
natural  after  a  town  has  been  carried  by  storm,  degene- 
rated so  quickly  into  an  attempt  to  sack  it.  Moreover, 
among  these  men  of  iron,  there  were  two  officers,  other- 
wise but  little  remarkable,  who  were  destined  by  force  of 
circumstances  to  play  an  important  part  in  this  story. 

The  first  of  these,  a  captain  on  the  clothing  establish- 
ment— half-civilian,  half-officer — was  generally  said,  in 
soldierly  language,  to  '  take  good  care  of  number  one.' 

Outside  his  regiment  he  was  wont  to  swagger  and 
brag  of  his  connection  with  it  ;  he  would  curl  his 
moustache  and  look  a  terrible  fellow,  but  his  mess  had 
no  great  opinion  of  him.  His  money  was  the  secret 
of  his  valorous  discretion.  For  a  double  reason,  more- 
over, he  had  been  nicknamed  Captain  of  the  Ravens  ; 
because,  in  the  first  place,  he  scented  the  powder  a  league 
away  ;  and,  in  the  second,  scurried  out  of  range  like  a 
bird  on  the  wing  ;  the  nickname  was  likewise  a  harmless 
soldier's  joke,  a  personality  of  which  another  might  have 
been  proud.  Captain  Montefiore,  of  the  illustrious 
family  of  the  Montefiori  of  Milan  (though  by  the  law  of 
the  kingdom  of  Italy  he  might  not  bear  his  title),  was 
one  of  the  prettiest  fellows  in  the  army.  Possibly  his 
beauty  may  secretly  have  been  an  additional  cause  of  his 
prudence  on  the  field  of  battle.  A  wound  in  the  face  by 
spoiling  his  profile,  scarring  his  forehead,  or  seaming  his 
cheeks,  would  have  spoiled  one  of  the  finest  heads  in 
Italy,  and  destroyed  the  delicate  proportions  of  a  coun- 


The  Maranas  113 

tenance  such  as  no  woman  ever  pictured  in  dreams.  In 
Girodet's  picture  of  the  Revolt  of  Cairo  there  is  a  young 
dying  Turk  who  has  the  same  type  of  face,  the  same 
melancholy  expression,  of  which  women  are  nearly 
always  the  dupes.  The  Marchese  di  Montefiore  had 
property  of  his  own,  but  it  was  entailed,  and  he  had 
anticipated  his  income  for  several  years  in  order  to  pay 
for  escapades  peculiarly  Italian  and  inconceivable  in  Paris. 
He  had  ruined  himself  by  running  a  theatre  in  Milan  for 
the  special  purpose  of  foisting  upon  the  public  a  cantatrice 
who  could  not  sing,  but  who  loved  him  (so  he  said)  to 
distraction. 

So  Montefiore  the  captain  had  good  prospects,  and 
was  in  no  hurry  to  risk  them  for  a  paltry  scrap  of  red 
ribbon.  If  he  was  no  hero,  he  was  at  any  rate  a  philo- 
sopher ;  besides,  precedents  (if  it  is  allowable  to  make  use 
of  parliamentary  expressions  in  this  connection),  pre- 
cedents are  forthcoming.  Did  not  Philip  11.  swear 
during  the  battle  of  Saint-Quentin  that  he  would  never 
go  under  fire  again,  nor  near  it,  save  the  faggots  of  the 
Inquisition  ?  Did  not  the  Duke  of  Alva  approve  the 
notion  that  the  involuntary  exchange  of  a  crown  for 
a  cannon-ball  was  the  worst  kind  of  trade  in  the 
world  ?  Montefiore,  therefore,  as  a  Marquis,  was  of 
Philip  ii.'s  way  of  thinking;  he  was  a  Philippist  in  his 
quality  of  gay  young  bachelor,  and  in  other  respects 
quite  as  astute  a  politician  as  Philip  11.  himself  He 
comforted  himself  for  his  nickname,  and  for  the  slight 
esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by  his  regiment,  with  the 
thought  that  his  comrades  were  sorry  scamps  ;  and  even 
if  they  should  survive  this  war  of  extermination,  their 
opinion  of  him  was  not  likely  to  gain  much  credence 
hereafter.  Was  not  his  face  as  good  as  a  certificate  of 
merit  ?  He  saw  himself  a  colonel  through  some 
accident  of  feminine  favour  ;  or,  by  a  skilfully  eiFected 
transition,  the  captain  on  the  clothing  establishment 
would  become  an  orderly,  and  the  orderly  would  in  turn 

H 


114  The  Maranas 

become  the  aide-de-camp  of  some  good-natured  marshal. 
The  bravery  of  the  uniform  and  the  bravery  of  the  man 
w^ere  all  as  one  to  the  captain  on  the  clothing  establish- 
ment. So  some  broad  sheet  or  other  vv^ould  one  day  call 
him  '  the  brave  Colonel  Montefiore,'  and  so  forth. 
Then  he  w^ould  have  a  hundred  thousand  scudi  a  year, 
he  w^ould  marry  the  daughter  of  a  noble  house,  and  no 
one  w^ould  dare  to  breathe  a  word  against  his  courage 
nor  to  seek  to  verify  his  wounds.  Finally,  it  should  be 
stated  that  Captain  Montefiore  had  a  friend  in  the  person 
of  the  quartermaster,  a  Provençal,  born  in  the  Nice 
district,  Diard  by  name. 

A  friend,  be  it  in  the  convict's  prison  or  in  an  artist's 
garret,  is  a  compensation  for  many  troubles  ;  and  Monte- 
fiore and  Diard,  being  a  pair  of  philosophers,  found  com- 
pensations for  their  hard  life  in  companionship  in  vice, 
much  as  two  artists  will  lull  the  consciousness  of  their 
hardships  to  sleep  by  hopes  of  future  fame.  Both  looked 
at  war  as  a  means  to  an  end,  and  not  as  an  end  in  itself, 
and  frankly  called  those  who  fell,  fools  for  their  pains. 
Chance  had  made  soldiers  of  both,  when  they  should 
have  been  by  rights  deliberating  in  a  congress  round  a 
table  covered  with  a  green  cloth.  Nature  had  cast 
Montefiore  in  the  mould  of  Rizzio,  and  Diard  in  the 
crucible  whence  she  turns  out  diplomatists.  Both  possessed 
the  excitable,  nervous,  half-feminine  temperament,  which 
is  always  energetic,  be  it  in  good  or  evil  ;  always  at  the 
mercy  of  the  caprices  of  the  moment,  and  swayed  by  an 
impulse  equally  unaccountable  to  commit  a  crime  or  to 
do  a  generous  deed,  to  act  as  a  hero  or  as  a  craven 
coward.  The  fate  of  such  natures  as  these  depends  at 
every  moment  of  their  lives  upon  the  intensity  of  the 
impressions  produced  upon  the  nervous  system  by  vehe- 
ment and  short-lived  passions. 

Diard  was  a  very  fair  accountant,  but  not  one  of  the 
men  would  have  trusted  him  with  his  purse,  or  made 
him   his   executor,   possibly   by   reason   of  the   suspicion 


The  Maranas  115 

that  the  soldier  feels  of  officialdom.  The  quarter- 
master's character  was  not  wanting  in  dash,  nor  in  a 
certain  boyish  enthusiasm,  which  is  apt  to  wear  off  as 
a  man  grows  older  and  reasons  and  makes  forecasts. 
And  for  the  rest,  his  humour  was  variable  as  the  beauty 
of  a  blonde  can  sometimes  be.  He  was  a  great  talker  on 
every  subject.  He  called  himself  an  artist  ;  and,  in  imita- 
tion of  two  celebrated  generals,  collected  works  of  art, 
simply,  he  asserted,  to  secure  them  for  posterity.  His 
comrades  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  say  what 
they  really  thought  of  him.  Many  of  them,  who  were 
wont  to  borrow  of  him  at  need,  fancied  that  he  was 
rich  ;  but  he  was  a  gambler,  and  a  gambler's  property 
cannot  be  called  his  own.  He  played  heavily,  so  did 
Montefiore,  and  all  the  officers  played  with  them  ;  for 
to  man's  shame,  be  it  said,  plenty  of  men  will  meet  on 
terms  of  equality  round  a  gaming  table  with  others  whom 
they  do  not  respect  and  will  not  recognise  if  they  meet 
them  elsewhere.  It  was  Montefiore  who  had  made  that 
bet  with  Bianchi  about  the  Spaniard's  heart. 

Montefiore  and  Diard  were  among  the  last  to  advance 
to  the  assault  of  the  place,  but  they  were  the  first  to  go 
forward  into  the  town  itself  when  it  was  taken.  Such 
things  happen  in  a  mêlée^  and  the  two  friends  were  old 
hands.  Mutually  supported,  therefore,  they  plunged  boldly 
into  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  dark  little  streets,  each  bent  upon 
his  own  private  affairs  ;  the  one  in  search  of  Madonnas 
on  canvas,  and  the  other  of  living  originals. 

In  some  quarter  of  Taragona,  Diard  espied  a  piece  of 
ecclesiastical  architecture,  saw  that  it  was  the  porch  of  a 
convent,  and  that  the  doors  had  been  forced,  and  rushed  in 
to  restrain  the  fury  of  the  soldiery.  He  was  not  a 
moment  too  soon.  Two  Parisians  were  about  to  riddle 
one  of  Albani's  Virgins  with  shot,  and  of  these  light 
infantrymen  he  bought  the  picture,  undismayed  by  the 
moustaches  with  which  the  zealous  iconoclasts  had 
adorned  it. 


1 1 6  The  Maranas 

Montefiore,  left  outside,  contemplated  the  front  of  a 
cloth  merchant's  house  opposite  the  convent.  He  was 
looking  it  up  and  down,  when  a  corner  of  a  blind  was 
raised,  a  girl's  head  peered  forth,  a  glance  like  a  lightning 
flash  answered  his,  and — a  shot  was  fired  at  him  from  the 
building.  Taragona  carried  by  assault,  Taragona  roused 
to  fury,  firing  from  every  window,  Taragona  outraged, 
dishevelled,  and  half-naked,  with  French  soldiers  pouring 
through  her  blazing  streets,  slaying  there  and  being 
slain,  was  surely  worth  a  glance  from  fearless  Spanish 
eyes.  What  was  it  but  a  bull-fight  on  a  grander  scale  ? 
Montefiore  forgot  the  pillaging  soldiers,  and  for  a  moment 
heard  neither  the  shrieks,  nor  the  rattle  of  musketry,  nor 
the  dull  thunder  of  the  cannon.  He,  the  Italian  libertine, 
tired  of  Italian  beauties,  weary  of  all  women,  dreaming 
of  an  impossible  woman  because  the  possible  had  ceased 
to  have  any  attraction  for  him,  had  never  beheld  so 
exquisitely  lovely  a  profile  as  that  of  this  Spanish  girl. 
The  jaded  voluptuary,  who  had  squandered  his  fortune  on 
follies  innumerable  and  on  the  gratification  of  a  young 
man's  endless  desires;  the  most  abominable  monstrosity 
that  our  society  can  produce,  could  still  tremble.  The 
bright  idea  of  setting  fire  to  the  house  instantly  flashed 
through  his  mind,  suggested,  doubtless,  by  the  shot  from 
the  patriotic  cloth  merchant's  window  ;  but  he  was  alone, 
and  the  means  of  doing  it  were  to  seek,  fighting  was 
going  forward  in  the  market-place,  where  a  few  desperate 
men  still  defended  themselves. 

He  thought  better  of  it.  Diard  came  out  of  the 
convent,  Montefiore  kept  his  discovery  to  himself,  and 
the  pair  made  several  excursions  through  the  town  to- 
gether ;  but  on  the  morrow  the  Italian  was  quartered  in 
the  cloth  merchant's  house,  a  very  appropriate  arrange- 
ment for  a  captain  on  the  clothing  establishment. 

The  first  floor  of  the  worthy  Spaniard's  abode  con- 
sisted of  a  vast  dimly-Hghted  shop  ;  protected  in  front, 
as  the  old  houses  in  the  Rue  des  Lombards  in  Paris  used 


The  Maranas  117 

to  be,  by  heavy  iron  bars.  Behind  the  shop  lay  the 
parlour,  lighted  by  windows  that  looked  out  into  an 
inner  yard.  It  was  a  large  room,  redolent  of  the  spirit 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  with  its  old  dark  pictures,  old 
tapestry,  and  antique  bra%ero.  A  broad-plumed  hat 
hung  from  a  nail  upon  the  wall  above  a  matchlock  used 
in  guerilla  warfare,  and  a  heavy  brigand's  cloak.  The 
kitchen  lay  immediately  beyond  this  parlour,  or  living- 
room,  where  meals  were  served  and  cigars  smoked  ;  and 
Spaniards,  talking  round  the  smouldering  brazier,  would 
nurse  hot  wrath  and  hatred  of  the  French  in  their  hearts. 

Silver  jugs  and  valuable  plate  stood  on  the  antique 
buffet,  but  the  room  was  fitfully  and  scantily  illumi- 
nated, so  that  the  daylight  scarcely  did  more  than  bring 
out  faint  sparkles  from  the  brightest  objects  in  the 
room  ;  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  even  the  faces  of  its 
occupants,  were  as  dark  as  a  Dutch  interior.  Between 
the  shop  itself  and  this  apartment,  with  its  rich  subdued 
tones  and  old-world  aspect,  a  sufficiently  ill-lit  staircase 
led  to  a  warehouse,  where  it  was  possible  to  examine  the 
stuffs  by  the  light  from  some  ingeniously  contrived 
windows.  The  merchant  and  his  wife  occupied  the 
floor  above  this  warehouse,  and  the  apprentice  and  the 
maid-servant  were  lodged  still  higher  in  the  attics  im- 
mediately beneath  the  roof.  This  highest  story  over- 
hung the  street,  and  was  supported  by  brackets,  which 
gave  a  quaint  look  to  the  house  front.  On  the  coming 
of  the  officer,  the  merchant  and  his  wife  resigned  their 
rooms  to  him  and  went  up  to  these  attics,  doubtless  to 
avoid  friction. 

Montefiore  gave  himself  out  to  be  a  Spanish  subject 
by  birth,  a  victim  to  the  tyranny  of  Napoleon,  whom  he 
was  forced  to  serve  against  his  will.  These  half-lies 
produced  the  intended  effect.  He  was  asked  to  join 
the  family  at  meals,  as  befitted  his  birth  and  rank  and 
the  name  he  bore.  He  had  his  private  reasons  for 
wishing  to  conciliate  the  merchant's   family.      He  felt 


ii8  The  Maranas 

the  presence  of  his  Madonna,  much  as  the  Ogre  in  the 
fairy  tale  smelt  the  tender  flesh  of  little  Thumbkin  and 
his  brothers  ;  but  though  he  succeeded  in  winning  his 
host's  confidence,  the  latter  kept  the  secret  of  the 
Madonna  so  well  that  the  captain  not  only  saw  no 
sign  of  the  girl's  existence  during  the  first  day  spent 
oeneath  the  honest  Spaniard's  roof,  but  heard  no  sound 
that  could  betray  her  presence  in  any  part  of  the 
dwelling.  The  old  house  was,  however,  almost  entirely 
built  of  wood  ;  every  noise  above  or  below  could  be  heard 
through  the  walls  and  ceilings,  and  Montefiore  hoped 
during  the  silence  of  the  early  hours  of  night  to  guess 
the  young  girl's  whereabouts.  She  was  the  only  daughter 
of  his  host  and  hostess,  he  thought  ;  probably  they  had 
shut  her  up  in  the  attics,  whither  they  themselves  had 
retired  during  the  military  occupation  of  the  town.  No 
indications,  however,  betrayed  the  hiding-place  of  the 
treasure.  The  officer  might  stand  with  his  face  glued 
to  the  small  leaded  diamond-shaped  panes  of  the  window, 
looking  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  yard  below  and  the 
grim  walls  that  rose  up  around  it,  but  no  light  gleamed 
from  any  window  save  from  those  of  the  room  overhead, 
where  he  could  hear  the  old  merchant  and  his  wife 
talking,  coughing,  coming,  and  going.  There  was  not 
so  much  as  a  shadow  of  a  girl  to  be  seen. 

Montefiore  was  too  cunning  to  risk  the  future  of  his 
passion  by  prowling  about  the  house  of  a  night,  by 
knocking  softly  at  all  the  doors,  or  by  other  hazardous 
expedients.  His  host  was  a  hot  patriot,  a  Spanish  father, 
and  an  owner  of  bales  of  cloth  ;  bound,  therefore,  in  each 
character  to  be  suspicious.  Discovery  would  be  utter 
ruin,  so  Montefiore  resolved  to  bide  his  time  patiently, 
hoping  everything  from  the  carelessness  of  human  nature  ; 
for  if  rogues,  with  the  best  of  reasons  for  being  cautious, 
will  forget  themselves  in  the  long  run,  so  still  more  will 
honest  men. 

Next  day  he  discovered  a  kind  of  hammock  slung  in  the 


The  Maranas  119 

kitchen — evidently  the  servant  slept  there.  The  appren- 
tice, it  seemed,  spent  the  night  on  the  counter  in  the  shop. 

At  supper-time,  on  the  second  day,  Montefiore  cursed 
Napoleon  till  he  saw  his  host's  sombre  face  relax  some- 
what. The  man  was  a  typical,  swarthy  Spaniard,  with 
a  head  such  as  used  to  be  carved  on  the  head  of  a  rebeck. 
A  smile  of  gleeful  hatred  lurked  among  the  wrinkles 
about  his  wife's  mouth.  The  lamplight  and  fitful  gleams 
from  the  brazier  filled  the  stately  room  with  capricious 
answering  reflections.  The  hostess  was  just  ofi^^ering  a 
cigarette  to  their  semi-compatriot,  when  Montefiore 
heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress,  and  a  chair  was  overturned 
behind  the  tapestry  hangings. 

'  There  !  '  cried  the  merchant's  wife,  turning  pale, 
'  may  all  the  saints  send  that  no  misfortune  has  befallen 
us!' 

'  So  you  have  some  one  in  there,  have  you  ?  '  asked  the 
Italian,  who  betrayed  no  sign  of  emotion. 

The  merchant  let  fall  some  injurious  remarks  as  to 
girls.  His  wife,  in  alarm,  opened  a  secret  door,  and 
brought  in  the  Italian's  Madonna,  half  dead  with  fear. 
The  delighted  lover  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  the  girl  ; 
but,  lest  he  might  overdo  the  affectation  of  indiiïerence, 
he  glanced  at  her,  and  turning  to  his  host,  asked  in  his 
mother  tongue — 

'  Is  she  your  daughter,  senor  ?  ' 

Perez  de  Lagounia  (for  that  was  the  merchant's  name) 
had  had  extensive  business  connections  in  Genoa,  Flor- 
ence, and  Leghorn  ;  he  knew  Italian,  and  replied  in  that 
language. 

'  No.  If  she  had  been  my  own  daughter,  I  should 
have  taken  fewer  precautions,  but  the  child  was  put  into 
our  charge,  and  I  would  die  sooner  than  allow  the 
slightest  harm  to  befall  her.  But  what  sense  can  you 
expect  of  a  girl  of  eighteen  ?  ' 

*She  is  very  beautiful,'  Montefiore  said  carelessly.  He 
did  not  look  at  her  again. 


I20  The  Maranas 

*The  mother  is  sufficiently  famous  for  her  beauty, 
answered  the  merchant.  And  they  continued  to  smoke 
and  to  watch  each  other. 

Montefiore  had  imposed  upon  himself  the  hard  task  of 
avoiding  the  least  look  that  might  compromise  his 
attitude  of  indifference  ;  but  as  Perez  turned  his  head 
aside  to  spit,  the  Italian  stole  a  glance  at  the  girl,  and 
again  those  sparkling  eyes  met  his.  In  that  one  glance, 
with  the  experienced  vision  that  gives  to  a  voluptuary  or 
a  sculptor  the  power  of  discerning  the  outlines  of  the 
form  beneath  the  draperies,  he  beheld  a  masterpiece 
created  to  know  all  the  happiness  of  love.  He  saw  a 
delicately  fair  face,  which  the  sun  of  Spain  had  slightly 
tinged  with  a  warm  brown,  that  added  to  a  seraphically 
calm  expression  a  flush  of  pride,  a  suffused  glow  beneath 
the  translucent  fairness,  due,  perhaps,  to  the  pure 
Moorish  blood  that  brought  animation  and  colour  into 
it.  Her  hair,  knotted  on  the  crown  of  her  head,  fell  in 
thick  curls  about  transparent  ears  like  a  child's,  surround- 
ing them  with  dark  shadows  that  made  a  framework  for 
the  vi^hite  throat  with  its  faint  blue  veins,  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  fiery  eyes  and  the  red  finely-curved 
mouth.  The  basquina  of  her  country  displayed  the 
curving  outlines  of  a  figure  as  pliant  as  a  branch  of 
willow.  This  was  no  Madonna  of  Italian  painters,  but 
the  Madonna  of  Spanish  art,  the  Virgin  of  Murillo,  the 
only  artist  daring  enough  to  depict  the  rapture  of  the 
Conception,  a  delirious  flight  of  the  fervid  imagination  of 
the  boldest  and  most  sensuous  of  painters.  Three 
qualities  were  blended  in  this  young  girl  ;  any  one  of 
them  would  have  sufficed  to  exalt  a  woman  into  a 
divinity — the  purity  of  the  pearl  in  the  depths  of  the 
sea,  the  sublime  exaltation  of  a  Saint  Theresa,  and  a 
voluptuous  charm  of  which  she  was  herself  unconscious. 
Her  presence  had  the  power  of  a  talisman.  Everything 
in  the  ancient  room  seemed  to  have  grown  young  to 
Montefiore's   eyes   since   she   entered    it.     But   if    the 


The  Maranas  m 

apparition  was  exquisite,  the  stay  was  brief;  she  was 
taken  back  to  her  mysterious  abiding-place,  and  thither, 
shortly  afterwards,  the  servant  took  a  light  and  her  supper, 
without  any  attempt  at  concealment. 

'  You  do  very  wisely  to  keep  her  out  of  sight,'  said 
Montefiore  in  Italian.  *  I  will  keep  your  secret.  The 
deuce  !  some  of  our  generals  would  be  quite  capable  of 
carrying  her  off  by  force.' 

Montefiore,  in  his  intoxication,  went  so  far  as  to  think 
of  marrying  the  fair  unknown.  With  this  idea  in  hi? 
mind,  he  put  some  questions  to  his  host.  Perez  willingly 
told  him  the  strange  chance  that  had  given  him  his 
ward  ;  indeed,  the  prudent  Spaniard,  knowing  Monte- 
fiore's  rank  and  name,  of  which  he  had  heard  in  Italy, 
was  anxious  to  confide  the  story  to  his  guest,  to  show 
how  strong  were  the  barriers  raised  between  the  young 
girl  and  seduction.  Although  in  the  good  man's  talk 
there  was  a  certain  homely  eloquence  and  force  in  keeping 
with  his  simple  manner  of  life,  and  with  that  carbine 
shot  at  Montefiore  from  the  window,  his  story  will  be 
better  given  in  an  abbreviated  form. 

When  the  French  Republic  revolutionised  the  manners 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  countries  which  served  as  the 
theatre  of  its  wars,  a  fille- de-jote^  driven  from  Venice 
after  the  fall  of  Venice,  came  to  Taragona.  Her  life 
had  been  a  tissue  of  romantic  adventure  and  strange 
vicissitudes.  On  no  woman  belonging  to  her  class  had 
gold  been  showered  so  often  ;  so  often  the  caprice  of 
some  great  lord,  struck  with  her  extraordinary  beauty,  had 
heaped  jewels  upon  her,  and  all  the  luxuries  of  wealth, 
for  a  time.  For  her  this  meant  flowers  and  carriages, 
pages  and  tire-women,  palaces  and  pictures,  insolent 
pride,  journeys  like  a  progress  of  Catherine  ii.,  the  life 
of  an  absolute  queen,  in  fact,  whose  caprices  were  law, 
and  whose  whims  were  more  than  obeyed  ;  and  then — 
suddenly  the  gold  would  utterly  vanish — how,  neither 
she   nor   any  one   else,    man   of  science,    physicist,   or 


122  The  Maranas 

chemist  could  tell,  and  she  was  returned  again  to  the 
streets  and  to  poverty,  with  nothing  in  the  world  save 
her  all-powerful  beauty.  Yet  through  it  all  she  lived 
without  taking  any  thought  for  the  past,  the  present,  or 
the  future.  Thrown  upon  the  world,  and  maintained  in 
her  extremity  by  some  poor  officer,  a  gambler,  adored 
for  his  moustache,  she  would  attach  herself  to  him  like  a 
dog  to  his  master,  and  console  him  for  the  hardships  of  a 
soldier's  life,  in  all  of  which  she  shared,  sleeping  as 
lightly  under  the  roof  of  a  garret  as  beneath  the  richest 
of  silk  canopies.  Whether  she  was  in  Spain  or  Italy,  she 
punctually  adhered  to  religious  observances.  More  than 
once  she  had  bidden  love  '  return  to-morrow,  to-day  I 
am  God's.' 

But  this  clay  in  which  gold  and  spices  were  mingled, 
this  utter  recklessness,  these  storms  of  passion,  the 
reHgious  faith  lying  in  the  heart  like  a  diamond  in  the 
mud,  the  life  begun  and  ended  in  the  hospital,  the 
continual  game  of  hazard  played  with  the  soul  and  body 
as  its  stake  ;  this  Alchemy  of  Life,  in  short,  with  vice 
fanning  the  flame  beneath  the  crucible  in  which  great 
careers  and  fair  inheritances  and  fortune  and  the  honour 
of  illustrious  names  were  melted  away  ;  all  these  were 
the  products  of  a  peculiar  genius,  faithfully  transmitted 
from  mother  to  daughter  from  the  times  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  woman  was  called  La  Marana.  In  her 
family,  whose  descent  since  the  thirteenth  century  was 
reckoned  exclusively  on  the  spindle  side — the  idea, 
person,  authority,  nay,  the  very  name  of  a  father,  had 
been  absolutely  unknown.  The  name  of  Marana  was 
for  her  what  the  dignity  of  Stuart  was  to  the  illustrious 
race  of  kings  of  Scotland,  a  title  of  honour  substituted 
for  the  patronymic,  when  the  office  became  hereditary 
in  their  family. 

In  former  times,  when  France,  Spain,  and  Italy 
possessed  common  interests,  which  at  times  bound  them 
closely  together,  and  at  least  as  frequently  embroiled  all 


The  Maranas  123 

three  in  wars,  the  word  Marana,  in  its  widest  acceptation, 
meant  a  courtesan.  In  those  ages  these  women  had  a 
definite  status  of  which  no  memory  now  exists.  In 
France,  Ninon  de  Lenclos  and  Marion  Delorme  alone 
played  such  a  part  as  the  Imperias,  the  Catalinas,  and 
Maranas  who  in  the  preceding  centuries  exercised  the 
powers  of  the  cassock,  the  robe,  and  the  sword.  There 
is  a  church  somewhere  in  Rome  built  by  an  Imperia  in 
a  fit  of  penitence,  as  Rhodope  of  old  once  built  a 
pyramid  in  Egypt.  The  epithet  by  which  this  family 
of  outcasts  once  was  branded  became  at  last  their  name 
in  earnest,  and  even  something  like  a  patent  of  nobility 
for  vice,  by  establishing  its  antiquity  beyond  cavil. 

But  for  the  La  Marana  of  the  nineteenth  century 
there  came  a  day,  whether  it  was  a  day  of  splendour  or 
of  miserv,  no  man  knows,  for  the  problem  is  a  secret 
between  her  soul  and  God  ;  but  it  was  surely  in  an  hour 
of  melancholy,  when  religion  made  its  voice  heard,  that 
with  her  head  in  the  skies  she  became  conscious  of  the 
slough  in  which  her  feet  were  set.  Then  she  cursed  the 
blood  in  her  veins  ;  she  cursed  herself  ;  she  trembled  to 
think  that  she  should  bear  a  daughter  ;  and  vowed,  as 
these  women  vow,  with  the  honour  and  resolution  of  the 
convict,  that  is  to  say,  with  the  strongest  resolution,  the 
most  scrupulous  honour  to  be  found  under  the  sun  ; 
making  her  vow,  therefore,  before  an  altar,  and  consecrat- 
ing it  thereby,  that  her  daughter  should  lead  a  virtuous 
and  holy  Hfe,  that  of  this  long  race  of  lost  and  sinful 
women  there  should  come  at  last  one  angel  who  should 
appear  for  them  in  heaven.  That  vow  made,  the  blood 
of  the  Marana  regained  its  sway,  and  again  the  courtesan 
plunged  into  her  life  of  adventure,  with  one  more  thought 
in  her  heart.  At  length  she  loved,  with  the  violent  love 
of  the  prostitute,  as  Henrietta  Wilson  loved  Lord  Pon- 
sonby,  as  Mademoiselle  Dupuis  loved  Bolingbroke,  as 
the  Marchesa  di  Pescara  loved  her  husband  ;  nay,  she 
did    not   love,    she    adored    a    fair-haired    half-feminine 


124  The  Maranas 

creature,  investing  him  with  all  the  virtues  that  she  had 
not,  and  taking  all  his  vices  upon  herself.  Of  this  mad 
union  with  a  weakHng,  a  union  blessed  neither  of  God 
nor  man,  only  to  be  excused  by  the  happiness  it  brings, 
but  never  absolved  by  happiness  ;  a  union  for  which  the 
most  brazen  front  must  one  day  blush,  a  daughter  was 
born,  a  daughter  to  be  saved,  a  daughter  for  whom  La 
Marana  desired  a  stainless  life,  and,  above  all  things,  the 
instincts  of  womanliness  which  she  herself  had  not. 
Thenceforward,  in  poverty  or  prosperity.  La  Marana 
bore  within  her  heart  a  pure  affection,  the  fairest  of  all 
human  sentiments,  because  it  is  the  least  selfish.  Love 
has  its  own  tinge  of  egoism,  but  there  is  no  trace  of  it  in 
a  mother's  affection. 

And  La  Marana's  motherhood  meant  more  to  her  than 
to  other  women.  It  was  perhaps  her  hope  of  salvation, 
a  plank  to  cling  to  in  the  shipwreck  of  her  eternity. 
Was  she  not  accomplishing  part  of  her  sacred  task  on 
earth  by  sending  one  more  angel  to  heaven  ?  Was  not 
this  a  better  thing  than  a  tardy  repentance  ?  Was  there 
any  other  way  now  left  to  her  of  sending  up  prayers  from 
a  pure  heart  to  God  ? 

When  her  daughter  was  given  to  her,  her  Maria-Juana- 
Pepita  (the  little  one  should  have  had  the  whole  calendar 
for  patron  saints  if  the  mother  could  have  had  her  will), 
then  La  Marana  set  before  herself  so  high  an  ideal  of  the 
dignity  of  motherhood  that  she  sought  a  truce  from  her 
life  of  sin.  She  would  live  virtuously  and  alone.  There 
should  be  no  more  midnight  revels  nor  wanton  days. 
All  her  fortunes,  all  her  happiness  lay  in  the  child's 
fragile  cradle.  The  sound  of  the  little  voice  made  an 
oasis  for  her  amid  the  burning  sands  of  her  life.  How 
should  this  love  be  compared  with  any  other  ?  Were 
not  all  human  affections  blended  in  it  with  every  hope 
of  heaven  ? 

La  Marana  determined  that  no  stain  should  rest  upon 
her  daughter's  Hfe,  save  that  of  the  original  sin  of  her 


The  Maranas  125 

birth,  which  she  strove  to  cleanse  by  a  baptism  in  all 
social  virtues  ;  so  she  asked  of  the  child's  young  father  a 
sufficient  fortune,  and  the  name  he  bore.  The  child  was 
no  longer  Juana  Marana,  but  Juana  dei  Mancini. 

At  last,  after  seven  years  of  joy  and  kisses,  of  rapture 
and  bliss,  the  poor  Marana  must  part  with  her  darling, 
lest  she  also  should  be  branded  with  her  hereditary  shame. 
The  mother  had  force  of  soul  sufficient  to  give  up  her 
child  for  her  child's  sake  ;  and  sought  out,  not  without 
dreadful  pangs,  another  mother  for  her,  a  family  whose 
manners  she  might  learn,  where  good  examples  would  be 
set  before  her.  A  mother's  abdication  is  an  act  either 
itrocious  or  sublime  ;  in  this  case,  was  it  not  sublime  ? 

At  Taragona,  therefore,  a  lucky  accident  brought  the 
Lagounias  in  her  way,  and  in  a  manner  that  brought  out 
all  the  honourable  integrity  of  the  Spaniard  and  the 
nobleness  of  his  wife.  For  these  two.  La  Marana 
appeared  like  an  angel  that  unlocks  the  doors  of  a  prison. 
The  merchant's  fortune  and  honour  were  in  peril  at  the 
moment,  and  he  needed  prompt  and  secret  help  ;  La 
Marana  handed  over  to  him  the  sum  of  money  intended 
for  Juana's  dowry,  asking  neither  for  gratitude  nor  for 
interest.  According  to  her  peculiar  notions  of  juris- 
prudence, a  contract  was  a  matter  of  the  heart,  a  stiletto 
the  remedy  in  the  hands  of  the  weak,  and  God  the 
supreme  Court  of  Appeal. 

She  told  Doîîa  Lagounia  the  story  of  her  miserable 
situation,  and  confided  her  child  and  her  child's  fortune 
to  the  honour  of  old  Spain,  and  the  untarnished  integrity 
that  pervaded  the  old  house.  Dofia  Lagounia  had 
no  children  of  her  own,  and  was  delighted  to  have  an 
adopted  daughter  to  bring  up.  The  courtesan  took  leave 
of  her  darling,  feeling  that  the  child's  future  was  secure, 
and  that  she  had  found  a  mother  for  Juana,  a  mother 
who  would  train  her  up  to  be  a  Mancini,  and  not  a 
Marana. 

Poor  Marana,  poor  bereaved  mother,  she  went  away 


120  The  Maranas 

from  the  merchant's  quiet  and  humble  home,  the  abode 
of  domestic  and  family  virtue  ;  and  felt  comforted  in  her 
grief  as  she  pictured  Juana  growing  up  in  that  atmosphere 
of  religion,  piety,  and  honour,  a  maiden,  a  wife,  and  a 
mother,  a  happy  mother,  not  for  a  few  brief  years,  but  all 
through  a  long  lifetime.  The  tears  that  fell  upon  the 
threshold  were  tears  that  angels  bear  to  heaven.  Since 
that  day  of  mourning  and  of  hope  La  Marana  had  thrice 
returned  to  see  her  daughter,  an  irresistible  presentiment 
each  time  bringing  her  back.  The  first  time  Juana  had 
fallen  dangerously  ill. 

*  I  knew  it  !  '  she  said  to  Perez,  as  she  entered  his 
house. 

Far  away,  and  as  she  slept,  she  had  dreamed  that 
Juana  was  dying. 

She  watched  over  her  daughter  and  tended  her,  and 
then  one  morning,  when  the  danger  was  over,  she  kissed 
the  sleeping  girl's  forehead,  and  went  without  revealing 
herself.  The  mother  within  her  bade  the  courtesan 
depart. 

A  second  time  La  Marana  came, — this  time  to  the 
church  where  Juana  dei  Mancini  made  her  first  Com- 
munion. The  exiled  mother,  very  plainly  dressed,  stood 
in  the  shadow  behind  a  pillar,  and  saw  her  past  self  in  her 
daughter,  saw  a  divinely  fair  face  like  an  angel's,  pure  as 
the  newly  fallen  snow  on  the  heights  of  the  hills.  Even 
in  La  Marana's  love  for  her  child  there  was  a  trace  of 
the  courtesan  ;  a  feeling  of  jealousy  stronger  than  all  love 
that  she  had  known  awoke  in  her  heart,  and  she  left  the 
church  ;  she  could  no  longer  control  a  wild  desire  to 
stab  Dona  Lagounia,  who  stood  there  with  that  look  of 
happiness  upon  her  face,  too  really  a  mother  to  her 
child. 

The  last  meeting  between  the  two  had  taken  place  at 
Milan,  whither  the  merchant  and  his  wife  had  gone.  La 
Marana,  sweeping  along  the  Corso  in  almost  queenly 
state,  flashed   like   lightniiig  upon    her  daughter's  sight. 


The  Maranas  127 

and  was  not  recognised.  Her  anguish  was  terrible. 
This  Marana  on  whom  kisses  were  showered  must 
hunger  for  one  kiss  in  vain,  one  for  which  she  would 
have  given  all  the  others,  the  girlish  glad  caress  a 
daughter  gives  her  mother,  her  honoured  mother,  her 
mother  in  whom  all  womanly  virtues  shine.  Juana  as 
long  as  she  Hved  was  dead  for  her. 

'  What  is  it,  love  ?  '  asked  the  Due  de  Lina,  and  at  the 
words  a  thought  revived  the  courtesan's  failing  heart,  a 
thought  that  gave  her  delicious  happiness — ^Juana  was  safe 
henceforward  !  She  might  perhaps  be  one  of  the  humblest 
of  women,  but  not  a  shameless  courtesan  to  whom  any 
man  might  say,  '  What  is  it,  love  ?  ' 

Indeed,  the  merchant  and  his  wife  had  done  their  duty 
with  scrupulous  fidelity.  Juana's  fortune  in  their  hands 
had  been  doubled.  Perez  de  Lagounia  had  become  the 
richest  merchant  in  the  province,  and  in  his  feeling 
towards  the  young  girl  there  was  a  trace  of  superstition. 
Her  coming  had  saved  the  old  house  from  ruin  and  dis- 
honour, and  had  not  the  presence  of  this  angel  brought 
unlooked-for  prosperity .?  His  wife,  a  soul  of  gold,  a 
refined  and  gentle  nature,  had  brought  up  her  charge 
devoutly  ;  the  girl  was  as  pure  as  she  was  beautiful. 
Juana  was  equally  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a  rich  merchant 
or  of  a  noble;  she  had  every  qualification  for  a  brilliant 
destiny.  But  for  the  war  that  had  broken  out,  Perez, 
who  dreamed  of  living  in  Madrid,  would  ere  now  have 
given  her  in  marriage  to  some  Spanish  grandee. 

'  I  do  not  know  where  La  Marana  is  at  this  moment,' 
he  concluded  ;  '  but  wherever  she  may  be,  if  she  hears 
that  our  province  is  occupied  by  your  armies,  and  that 
Taragona  has  been  besieged,  she  is  sure  to  be  on  her 
way  hither  to  watch  over  her  daughter.' 

This  story  wrought  a  change  in  the  captain's  inten- 
tions ;  he  no  longer  thought  of  making  a  Marchesa  di 
Montefiore  of  Juana  dei  Mancini.  He  recognised 
the   Marana  blood    in    that    Svvift   glance    the    girl   had 


128  The  Maranas 

exchanged  with  him  from  her  shelter  behind  the  blind, 
in  the  stratagem  by  which  she  had  satisfied  her  curiosity, 
in  that  last  look  she  had  given  him  ;  and  the  libertine 
meant  to  marry  a  virtuous  wife. 

This  would  be  a  dangerous  escapade,  no  doubt,  but 
the  perils  were  of  the  kind  that  never  sinks  the  courage 
of  the  most  pusillanimous,  for  love  and  its  pleasures 
would  reward  them.  There  were  obstacles  everywhere  : 
there  was  the  apprentice  who  slept  on  the  counter,  and 
the  servant-maid  on  the  makeshift  couch  in  the  kitchen  ; 
Perez  and  his  wife,  who  kept  a  dragon's  watch  by  day, 
were  old,  and  doubtless  slept  lightly  ;  every  sound  echoed 
through  the  house,  everything  seemed  to  put  the  adven- 
ture beyond  the  range  of  possibilities.  But  as  a  set-ofF 
against  these  things,  Montefiore  had  an  ally — the  blood 
of  the  Marana,  which  throbbed  feverishly  in  the  heart 
of  the  lovely  Italian  girl  brought  up  as  a  Spaniard,  the 
maiden  athirst  for  love.  Passion,  the  girl's  nature,  and 
Montefiore  was  a  combination  that  might  defy  the 
whole  world. 

Prompted  quite  as  strongly  by  the  instincts  of  a  char- 
tered libertine  as  by  the  vague  inexplicable  hopes  to  which 
we  give  the  name  of  presentiments,  a  word  that  describes 
them  with  such  startling  aptness — Montefiore  took  up 
his  stand  at  his  window,  and  spent  the  early  hours  of  the 
night  there,  looking  down  in  the  presumed  direction  of 
the  secret  hiding-place,  where  the  old  couple  had 
enshrined  their  darling,  the  joy  of  their  old  age. 

The  warehouse  on  the  entresol  [to  make  use  of  a  French 
word  that  will  perhaps  make  the  disposition  of  the  house 
clearer  to  the  reader)  separated  the  two  young  people,  so 
it  was  idle  for  the  captain  to  try  to  convey  a  message  by 
means  of  tapping  upon  the  floor,  a  shift  for  speech  that 
all  lovers  can  devise  under  such  circumstances.  Chance, 
however,  came  to  his  assistance,  or  was  it  the  young  girl 
herself?  Just  as  he  took  his  stand  at  the  window  he  saw 
a  circle  of  light  that  fell  upon  the  grim  opposite  wall  of 


The  Maranas  129 

the  yard,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  a  dark  silhouette,  the 
form  of  Juana.  Everything  that  she  did  was  shadowed 
there  ;  from  her  attitude  and  the  movement  of  her  arms, 
she  seemed  to  be  arranging  her  hair  for  the  night. 

*  Is  she  alone  ?  '  Montefiore  asked  himself.  '  If  I 
weight  a  letter  with  a  few  coins,  will  it  be  safe  to  dangle 
it  by  a  thread  against  the  round  window  that  no  doubt 
lights  her  cell  ?  ' 

He  wrote  a  note  forthwith,  a  note  characteristic  of 
the  officer,  of  the  soldier  sent  for  reasons  of  family 
expediency  to  the  isle  of  Elba,  of  the  former  dilettante 
Marquis,  fallen  from  his  high  estate,  and  become  a 
captain  on  the  clothing  establishment.  He  wrapped 
some  coins  in  the  note,  devised  a  string  out  of  various 
odds  and  ends,  tied  up  the  packet  and  let  it  down, 
without  a  sound,  into  the  very  centre  of  that  round 
brightness. 

'  If  her  mother  or  the  servant  is  with  her,'  Montefiore 
thought,  *  I  shall  see  the  shadows  on  the  wall  ;  and  if  she 
is  not  alone,  I  will  draw  up  the  cord  at  once.' 

But  when,  after  pains  innumerable,  which  can  readily 
be  imagined,  the  weighted  packet  tapped  at  the  glass, 
only  one  shadow  appeared,  and  it  was  the  slender  figure 
of  Juana  that  flitted  across  the  wall.  Noiselessly  the 
young  girl  opened  the  circular  window,  saw  the  packet, 
took  it  in,  and  stood  for  a  while  reading  it. 

Montefiore  had  written  in  his  own  name  and  en- 
treated an  interview.  He  offered,  in  the  style  of  old 
romances,  his  heart  and  hand  to  Juana  dei  Mancini — a  base 
and  commonplace  stratagem  that  nearly  always  succeeds  ! 
At  Juana's  age,  is  not  nobiHty  of  soul  an  added 
danger  ?  A  poet  of  our  own  days  has  gracefully  said 
that  'only  in  her  strength  does  woman  yield.'  Let 
a  lover,  when  he  is  most  beloved,  feign  doubts  of  the 
love  that  he  inspires,  and  in  her  pride  and  her  trust  in 
him,  a  girl  would  invent  sacrifices  for  his  sake,  knowing 
neither   the  world   nor   man's    nature  well   enough  to 

I 


1 3©  The  Maranas 

retain  her  self-command  when  passion  stirs  within  her, 
and  to  overwhelm  with  her  scorn  the  lover  who  can 
accept  a  whole  life  offered  to  him  to  turn  away  a  ground- 
less reproach. 

In  our  sublimely  constituted  society  a  young  girl 
is  placed  in  a  painful  dilemma  between  the  forecasts 
of  prudent  virtue  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  conse- 
quences of  error  upon  the  other.  If  she  resists,  it  not 
seldom  happens  that  she  loses  a  lover  and  the  first 
love,  that  is  the  most  attractive  of  all  ;  and  if  she  is 
imprudent,  she  loses  a  marriage.  Cast  an  eye  over  the 
vicissitudes  of  social  life  in  Paris,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
doubt  the  necessity  of  a  religion  that  shall  ensure  that  there 
are  no  more  young  girls  seduced  daily.  And  Paris  is 
situated  in  the  forty-eighth  degree  of  latitude,  while 
Taragona  lies  below  the  forty-first.  The  old  question  of 
climate  is  still  useful  to  the  novelist  seeking  an  excuse  for 
the  suddenness  of  his  catastrophe,  and  is  made  to  explain 
the  imprudence  or  the  dilatoriness  of  a  pair  of  lovers. 

Montefiore's  eyes  were  fixed  meanwhile  on  the  charm- 
ing silhouette  in  the  midst  of  the  bright  circle.  Neither 
he  nor  Juana  could  see  each  other  j  an  unlucky  archway 
above  her  casement,  with  perverse  malignity,  cut  off  all 
chances  of  communication  by  signs,  such  as  two  lovers 
can  contrive  by  leaning  out  of  their  windows.  So  the 
captain  concentrated  his  whole  mind  and  attention  upon 
the  round  patch  on  the  wall.  Perhaps  all  unwittingly 
the  girl's  movements  might  betray  her  thoughts.  Here 
again  he  was  foiled.  Juana's  strange  proceedings  gave 
Montefiore  no  room  for  the  faintest  hope  ;  she  was 
amusing  herself  by  cutting  up  the  billet. 

It  often  happens  that  virtue  and  discretion,  in  dis- 
trust, adopt  shifts  familiar  to  the  jealous  Bartholos  of 
comedy.  Juana,  having  neither  paper,  pen,  nor  ink,  was 
scratching  an  answer  with  the  point  of  a  pair  of  scissors. 
In  another  moment  she  tied  the  scrap  of  paper  to  the 
string,  the  officer  drew  it  in,  opened  it,  held  it  up  against 


The  Maranas  131 

the  lamp,  and  read  the  perforated  characters — *  Come,'  it 
said. 

*"Come  ?  '"said  he  to  himself.  'Poison,  and  carbine,  and 
Perez'  dagger  !  And  how  about  the  apprentice  hardly 
asleep  on  the  counter  by  this  time,  and  the  servant  in 
her  hammock,  and  the  house  booming  like  a  bass  viol 
with  every  sound  ?  why,  I  can  hear  old  Perez  snoring 
away  upstairs  !  *'  Come  !  "  .  .  .  Then,  has  she  nothing 
to  lose  ?  ' 

Acute  reflection  !  Libertines  alone  can  reason  thus 
logically,  and  punish  a  woman  for  her  devotion.  The 
imagination  of  man  has  created  Satan  and  Lovelace,  but 
a  maiden  is  an  angelic  being  to  whom  he  can  lend 
nothing  but  his  vices  ;  so  lofty,  so  fair  is  she,  that  he 
cannot  set  her  higher  nor  add  to  her  beauty  ;  he  has  but 
the  fatal  power  of  blighting  this  creation  by  dragging  it 
down  to  his  miry  level. 

Montefiore  waited  till  the  drowsiest  hour  of  the  night, 
then  in  spite  of  his  sober  second  thoughts,  he  crept  down- 
stairs. He  had  taken  ofF  his  shoes,  and  carried  his  pistols 
with  him,  and  now  he  groped  his  way  step  by  step, 
stopping  to  listen  in  the  silence;  trying  each  separate 
Etair,  straining  his  eyes  till  he  almost  saw  in  the  darkness, 
and  ready  to  turn  back  at  any  moment  if  the  least  thing 
befell  him.  He  wore  his  handsomest  uniform  ;  he  had 
perfumed  his  dark  hair,  and  taken  pains  with  the  toilette 
that  set  off  his  natural  good  looks.  On  occasions  like 
these,  most  men  are  as  much  a  woman  as  any  woman. 

Montefiore  managed  to  reach  the  door  of  the  girl's 
secret  hiding-place  without  difficulty.  It  was  a  little 
cabinet  contrived  in  a  corner  which  projected  into 
another  dwelling,  a  not  unusual  freak  of  the  builder 
where  ground -rents  are  high,  and  houses  in  conse- 
quence packed  very  tightly  together.  Here  Juana  lived 
alone,  day  and  night,  out  of  sight  of  all  eyes.  Hitherto 
she  had  slept  near  her  adopted  mother  ;  but  when  Perez 
and   his    wife    removed    to    the    top  of  the  house,  the 


Ï32  The  Maranas 

arrangements  of  the  attics  did  not  permit  of  their  taking 
their  ward  thither  also.  So  Doîîa  Lagounia  had  left  the 
girl  to  the  guardianship  of  the  lock  of  the  secret  door, 
to  the  protection  of  religious  ideas,  but  so  much  the 
more  powerful  because  they  had  become  superstitions  ; 
and  with  the  further  safeguards  of  a  natural  pride,  and 
the  shrinking  delicacy  of  the  sensitive  plant,  which  made 
Juana  an  exception  among  her  sex,  for  to  the  most 
pathetic  innocence  Juana  Mancini  united  no  less  the 
most  passionate  aspirations.  It  had  needed  a  retired 
life  and  devout  training  to  quiet  and  to  cool  the  hot 
blood  of  the  Maranas  that  glowed  in  her  veins,  the 
impulses  that  her  adopted  mother  called  temptations  of 
the  Evil  One. 

A  faint  gleam  of  light  beneath  the  door  in  the  panels 
discovered  its  whereabouts  for  Montefiore.  He  tapped 
softly  with  the  tips  of  his  finger-nails,  and  Juana  let  him 
in.  Quivering  from  head  to  foot  with  excitement,  he 
met  the  young  girl's  look  of  naïve  curiosity,  and  read 
the  most  complete  ignorance  of  her  peril,  and  a  sort  of 
childlike  admiration  in  her  eyes.  He  stood,  awed  for  a 
moment  by  the  picture  of  the  sanctuary  before  him. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  grey  tapestry,  covered  with 
violet  flowers.  A  small  ebony  chest,  an  antique  mirror, 
a  huge  old-fashioned  armchair,  also  made  of  ebony,  and 
covered  with  tapestry  ;  another  chair  beside  the  spindle- 
legged  table,  a  pretty  carpet  on  the  floor — that  was  all. 
But  there  were  flowers  on  the  table  beside  some  em- 
broidery work,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  stood 
the  little  narrow  bed  on  which  Juana  dreamed  ;  three 
pictures  hung  on  the  wall  above  it,  and  at  the  head  stood 
a  crucifix  above  a  little  holy  water  stoup,  and  a  prayer 
framed  and  illuminated  in  gold.  The  room  was  full  of 
the  faint  perfume  of  the  flowers,  of  the  soft  light  of  the 
tapers  ;  it  all  seemed  so  quiet,  pure,  and  sacred.  The 
subtle  charm  of  Juana's  dreamy  fancies,  nay,  of  Juana 
herself,   seemed   to   pervade  everything  ;    her  soul    was 


The  Maranas  133 

revealed  by  her  surroundings  ;  the  pearl  lay  there  in  its 
shell. 

Juana,  clad  in  white,  with  no  ornament  save  her  own 
loveliness,  letting  fall  her  rosary  to  call  on  the  name  of 
Love,  would  have  inspired  even  Montefiore  with  reverence 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  night  about  them  and  the  silence, 
if  Juana  had  welcomed  love  less  eagerly,  if  the  little  white 
bed  had  not  displayed  the  turned-down  coverlet — the 
pillow,  confidante  of  innumerable  vague  longings.  Monte- 
fiore stood  there  for  long,  intoxicated  by  joy  hitherto 
unknown  ;  such  joy  as  Satan,  it  may  be,  would  know 
at  a  glimpse  of  paradise  if  the  cloud-veil  that  envelopes 
heaven  was  rent  away  for  a  moment. 

'I  loved  you  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you,'  he 
said,  speaking  pure  Tuscan  in  the  tones  of  his  musical 
Italian  voice.  *  In  you  my  soul  and  my  life  are  set  ;  if 
you  so  will  it,  they  shall  be  yours  for  ever.' 

To  Juana  listening,  the  air  she  breathed  seemed  to 
vibrate  with  the  words  grown  magical  upon  her  lover's 
tongue. 

*  Poor  little  girl  !  how  have  you  breathed  the  atmo- 
sphere of  this  gloomy  place  so  long,  and  lived  ?  You, 
meant  to  reign  like  a  queen  in  the  world,  to  dwell  in  the 
palace  of  a  prince,  to  pass  from  festival  to  festival,  to 
feel  in  your  own  heart  the  joys  that  you  create,  to  see 
the  world  at  your  feet,  to  make  the  fairest  splendours 
pale  before  the  glorious  beauty  that  shall  never  be 
rivalled, — you  have  lived  here  in  seclusion  with  this  old 
tradesman  and  his  wife  !  ' 

There  was  a  purpose  in  his  exclamation  ;  he  wanted 
Ito  find  out  whether  or  no  Juana  had  ever  had  a 
llover. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered.  *  But  who  can  have  told  you  my 
^nmost     thoughts?       For     these    twelve     months    past 

have  been  weary  to  death  of  it.  Yes,  I  would  die 
rather  than  stay  any  longer  in  this  house.  Do  you 
bee   this   embroidery  ?      I    have    set   countless    dreadful 


134  The  Maranas 

thoughts  into  every  stitch  of  it.  How  often  I  have 
longed  to  run  away  and  fling  myself  into  the  sea  ! 
Do  you  ask  why  ?  I  have  forgotten  already.  .  .  . 
Childish  troubles,  but  very  keenly  felt  in  spite  of  their 
childishness.  .  .  .  Often  at  night  when  I  kissed  my 
mother,  I  have  given  her  such  a  kiss  as  one  gives  for  a 
last  ferewell,  saying  in  my  heart,  "I  will  kill  myself  to- 
morrow." After  all,  I  did  not  die.  Suicides  go  to  hell, 
and  I  was  so  much  afraid  of  that,  that  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  endure  my  life,  to  get  up  and  go  to  bed,  and  do 
the  same  things  hour  after  hour  of  every  day.  My  life 
was  not  irksome,  it  was  painful. — And  yet,  my  father  and 
mother  worship  me.  Oh  !  I  am  wicked  !  indeed,  I  tell 
my  confessor  so.' 

*  Then  have  you  always  lived  here  without  amuse- 
ments, without  pleasures  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  I  have  not  always  felt  like  this.  Until  I  was 
fifteen  years  old,  I  enjoyed  seeing  the  festivals  of  the 
Church  ;  I  loved  the  singing  and  the  music.  I  was  so 
happy,  because  I  felt  that,  like  the  angels,  I  was  sinless, 
so  glad  that  I  might  take  the  sacrament  every  week,  in 
short,  I  loved  God  then.  But  in  these  three  years  I 
have  changed  utterly,  day  by  day.  It  began  when  I 
wanted  flowers  here  in  the  house,  and  they  gave  me 
very  beautiful  ones  ;  then  I  wanted.  .  .  .  But  now  I 
want  nothing  any  longer,'  she  added,  after  a  pause,  and 
she  smiled  at  Montefiore. 

'  Did  you  not  tell  me  just  now  in  your  letter  that  you 
would  love  me  for  ever  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  my  Juana,'  murmured  Montefiore.  He  put  his 
arm  round  the  waist  of  this  adorable  girl,  and  pressed  her 
closely  to  his  heart.  '  Yes.  But  let  me  speak  to  you  as 
you  pray  to  God.  Are  you  not  fairer  than  Our  Lady  in 
heaven  ?  Hear  me,'  and  he  set  a  kiss  in  her  hair,  '  for 
me  that  forehead  of  yours  is  the  fairest  altar  on  earth  ; 
I  swear  to  worship  you,  my  idol,  to  pour  out  all  the 
wealth  of  the  world  upon  you.     My  carriages  are  yours, 


The  Maranas  135 

my  palace  in  Milan  is  yours,  yours  all  the  jewels  and  the 
diamonds,  the  heirlooms  of  my  ancient  house  ;  new 
ornaments  and  dresses  every  day,  and  all  the  countless 
pleasures  and  delights  of  the  world.' 

'  Yes,'  she  said,  '  I  should  like  it  all  very  much  j  but 
in  my  soul  I  feel  that  I  should  love  my  dear  husband 
more  than  all  things  else  in  the  world.' 

Mio  caro  sposo  !  Italian  was  Juana's  native  speech,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  put  into  two  words  of  another  language 
the  wonderful  tenderness,  the  winning  grace  with  which 
that  brief  delicious  phrase  is  invested  by  the  accents  of 
an  Italian  tongue.  *•  I  shall  find,'  she  said,  and  the 
purity  of  a  seraph  shone  in  her  eyes,  '  I  shall  find  my 
beloved  religion  again  in  him.  His  and  God's,  God's 
and  his  !  .  .  .  But  you  are  he,  are  you  not  ?  '  she  cried 
after  a  pause.  'Surely,  surely  you  are  he  !  Ah  !  come 
and  see  the  picture  that  my  father  brought  me  from  Italy.' 

She  took  up  a  candle,  beckoned  to  Montefiore,  and 
showed  him  a  picture  that  hung  at  the  foot  of  the  bed — 
Saint  Michael  trampling  Satan  underfoot. 

*  Look  !  '  she  cried,  '  has  he  not  your  eyes  ?  That 
made  me  think,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  in  the  street,  that 
in  the  meeting  I  saw  the  finger  of  heaven.  So  often 
I  have  lain  awake  in  the  morning  before  my  mother 
came  to  call  me  to  prayer,  thinking  about  that  picture, 
looking  at  the  angel,  until  at  last  I  came  to  think  that  he 
was  my  husband.  Mon  Dieu  !  I  am  talking  as  I  think 
to  myself.  What  wild  nonsense  it  must  seem  to  you  ! 
but  if  you  only  knew  how  a  poor  recluse  longs  to  pour 
out  the  thoughts  that  oppress  her  !  I  used  to  talk  to 
these  flowers  and  the  woven  garlands  on  the  tapestry 
when  I  was  alone  ;  they  understood  me  better,  I  think, 
than  my  father  and  mother — always  so  serious ' 

*  Juana,'  said  Montefiore,  and  as  he  took  her  hands  and 
kissed  them,  passion  shone  in  his  eyes  and  overflowed  in 
his  gestures  and  in  the  sound  of  his  voice,  '  talk  to  me  as 
if  I  were  your  husband,  talk  to  me  as  you  talk  to  yourself. 


1 36  The  Maranas 

I  have  suffered  all  that  you  have  suffered.  Few  words 
will  be  needed,  when  we  talk  together,  to  bring  back  the 
whole  past  of  either  life  before  we  met  ;  but  there  are 
not  words  enough  in  language  to  tell  of  the  bliss  that 
lies  before  us.  Lay  your  hand  on  my  heart.  Do  you 
feel  how  it  beats  ?  Let  us  vow,  before  God,  who  sees 
and  hears  us,  to  be  faithful  to  each  other  all  our  lives. 
Stay,  take  this  ring. — Give  me  yours.' 

'  Give  away  my  ring  ?  '  she  cried,  startled. 

'  Why  not  ?  '  asked  Monteiiore,  dismayed  by  so  much 
simplicity. 

'  Why,  it  came  to  me  from  our  Holy  Father  the  Pope. 
When  I  was  a  little  girl  a  beautiful  lady  set  it  on  my 
finger  ;  she  took  care  of  me,  and  brought  me  here,  and 
she  told  me  to  keep  it  always.' 

*  Then  you  do  not  love  me,  Juana  ?  ' 

*Ah!  here  it  is,'  she  cried.  'Are  you  not  more 
myself  than  I  ?  ' 

She  held  out  the  ring,  trembling  as  she  did  so,  keeping 
her  fingers  tightly  clasped  upon  it  as  she  looked  at 
Montefrore  with  clear,  questioning  eyes.  That  ring 
meant  her  whole  self:  she  gave  it  to  him. 

'  Oh  !  my  Juana  !  '  said  Montefiore  as  he  held  her 
closely  in  his  arms,  '  only  a  monster  could  be  false  to  you. 
...  I  will  love  you  for  ever  .  .  .' 

Juana  grew  dreamy.  Montefiore,  thinking  within 
himself  that,  in  his  first  interview,  he  must  not  run  the 
slightest  risk  of  startling  a  girl  so  innocent,  whose  im- 
prudence sprang  rather  from  virtue  than  from  desire,  was 
fain  to  content  himself  with  thinking  of  the  future,  of 
her  beauty  now  that  he  had  known  its  power,  and  of  the 
innocent  marriage  of  the  ring,  that  most  sublime  of 
betrothals,  the  simplest  and  most  binding  of  all  cere- 
monies, the  betrothal  of  the  heart. 

For  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  all  day  long  on  the 
morrow,  Juana's  imagination  would  surely  become  the 
accomplice  of  his  desires.     So   he  put  constraint  upon 


The  Maranas  137 

himself,  and  tried  to  be  as  respectful  as  he  was  tender. 
With  these  thoughts  present  in  his  mind,  prompted  by 
his  passion,  and  yet  more  by  the  desires  that  Juana  inspired 
in  him,  his  words  were  insinuating  and  fervent.  He 
led  the  innocent  child  to  plan  out  the  new  life  before 
them,  painted  the  world  for  her  in  the  most  glow- 
ing colours,  dwelt  on  the  household  details  that 
possess  such  a  delightful  interest  for  young  girls,  and 
made  with  her  the  compacts  over  which  lovers  dispute, 
the  agreements  that  give  rights  and  reality  to  love. 
Then,  when  they  had  decided  the  hour  for  their  nightly 
tryst,  he  went,  leaving  a  happy  but  a  changed  Juana. 
The  simple  and  innocent  Juana  no  longer  existed,  already 
there  was  more  passion  than  a  girl  should  reveal  in  the 
last  glance  that  she  gave  him,  in  the  charming  way  that 
she  held  up  her  forehead  for  the  touch  of  her  lover's  lips. 
It  was  all  the  result  of  solitude  and  irksome  tasks  upon 
this  nature  ;  if  she  was  to  be  prudent  and  virtuous,  the 
knowledge  of  the  world  should  either  have  come  to  her 
gradually,  or  have  been  hidden  from  her  for  ever. 

*  How  slowly  the  day  will  go  to-morrow  !  '  she  said,  as 
another  kiss,  still  respectfully  given,  was  pressed  upon  her 
forehead. 

*  But  you  will  sit  in  the  dining-room,  will  you  not  ? 
and  raise  your  voice  a  little  when  you  talk,  so  that  I  may 
hear  you,  and  the  sound  may  fill  my  heart.' 

Montefiore,  beginning  to  understand  the  life  that 
Juana  led,  was  but  the  better  pleased  that  he  had  managed 
to  restrain  his  desires  that  he  might  the  better  secure  his 
end.     He  returned  to  his  room  without  mishap. 

Ten  days  went  by,  and  nothing  occurred  to  disturb 
the  peace  and  quiet  of  the  house.  Montefiore,  with  the 
persuasive  manners  of  an  Italian,  had  gained  the  good 
graces  of  old  Perez  and  Dona  Lagounia  ;  indeed,  he  was 
popular  with  the  whole  household — with  the  apprentice 
and  the  maid-servant  ;  but  in  spite  of  the  confidence  that 
he  had  succeeded  in  inspiring  in  them,  he  never  attempted 


138  The  Maranas 

to  take  advantage  of  it  to  ask  to  see  Juana,  or  to  open 
the  door  of  that  Httle  sealed  paradise.  The  ItaHan  girl, 
in  her  longing  to  see  her  lover,  had  often  besought  him 
to  do  this,  but  from  motives  of  prudence  he  had  always 
refused.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  used  the  character 
he  had  gained  and  all  his  skill  to  lull  the  suspicions  of 
the  old  couple  ;  he  had  accustomed  them  to  his  habit  of 
never  rising  till  mid-day,  soldier  as  he  w^as.  The  captain 
gave  out  that  his  health  was  bad.  So  the  two  lovers 
only  lived  at  night  when  all  the  household  was 
asleep. 

If  Montefiore  had  not  been  a  libertine  to  whom  a  long 
experience  of  pleasure  had  given  presence  of  mind  under 
all  conditions,  they  would  have  been  lost  half  a  score  of 
times  in  those  ten  days.  A  young  lover,  with  the  single- 
heartedness  of  first  love,  would  have  been  tempted  in  his 
rapture  into  imprudences  that  were  very  hard  to  resist  ;  but 
the  Italian  was  proof  even  against  Juana,  against  her 
pouting  lips,  her  wild  spirits,  against  a  Juana  who  wound 
the  long  plaits  of  her  hair  about  his  throat  to  keep  him 
by  her  side.  The  keenest  observer  would  have  been 
sorely  puzzled  to  detect  those  midnight  meetings.  It 
may  well  be  believed  that  the  Italian,  sure  of  his  ulti- 
mate success,  enjoyed  prolonging  the  ineffable  pleasure 
of  this  intrigue  in  which  he  made  progress  step  by  step, 
in  fanning  the  flame  that  gradually  waxed  hotter,  till 
everything  must  yield  to  it  at  last. 

On  the  eleventh  day,  as  they  sat  at  dinner,  he  deemed 
it  expedient  to  confide  to  Perez  (under  the  seal  of  secrecy) 
the  history  of  the  disgrace  into  which  he  had  fallen 
among  his  family.     It  was  a  mésalliance,  he  said. 

There  was  something  revolting  in  this  lie,  told  as  a 
confidence,  while  that  midnight  drama  was  in  progress 
beneath  the  old  man's  roof.  Montefiore,  an  experienced 
actor,  was  leading  up  to  a  catastrophe  planned  by  himself; 
and,  Hke  an  artist  who  loves  his  art,  he  enjoyed  the 
thought  of  it.     He  meant  very  shortly  to  take  leave  of 


The  Maranas  139 

the  house  and  of  his  lady-love  without  regret.  And 
when  Juana,  risking  her  life  it  might  be  to  ask  the 
question,  should  inquire  of  Perez  what  had  become  of 
their  guest,  Perez  would  tell  her,  all  unwittingly,  that 
'the  Marchese  di  Montefiore  has  been  reconciled  with 
his  family  ;  they  have  consented  to  receive  his  wife,  and 
he  has  taken  her  to  them.' 

And  Juana  ?  .  .  .  The  ItaHan  never  inquired  of  him- 
self what  would  become  of  her;  he  had  had  ample 
opportunity  of  knowing  her  nobleness,  her  innocence, 
and  her  goodness,  and  felt  sure  that  Juana  would  keep 
silence. 

He  obtained  a  message  to  carry  for  some  general  or 
other.  Three  days  afterwards,  on  the  night  before  he 
must  start,  Montefiore  went  straight  to  Juana's  room 
instead  of  going  first  to  his  own.  The  same  instinct 
that  bids  the  tiger  leave  no  morsel  of  his  prey,  prompted 
the  Italian  to  lengthen  the  night  of  farewells.  Juana, 
the  true  daughter  of  two  southern  lands,  with  the  passion 
of  Spain  and  of  Italy  in  her  heart,  was  enraptured  by  the 
boldness  that  brought  her  lover  to  her  and  revealed  the 
ardour  of  his  love.  To  know  the  deUcious  torment  of  an 
illicit  passion  under  the  sanction  of  marriage,  to  conceal 
her  husband  behind  the  bed-curtains,  half  deceiving  the 
adopted  father  and  mother,  to  whom  she  could  say  in 
case  of  discovery,  '  I  am  the  Marchesa  di  Montefiore,' 
was  not  this  a  festival  for  the  young  and  romantic  girl 
who,  for  three  years  past,  had  dreamed  of  love — love  always 
beset  with  perils  ?  The  curtains  of  the  door  fell,  drawing 
about  their  madness  and  their  happiness  a  veil  which  it  is 
useless  to  raise. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  the  merchant  and  his  wife 
were  reading  the  evening  prayer,  when  suddenly  the 
sound  of  a  carriage,  drawn  by  several  horses,  came  from 
the  narrow  street  without.  Some  one  knocked  hastily 
and  loudly  at  the  door  of  the  shop.  The  servant  ran  to 
open  it,  and  in  a  moment  a  woman  sprang  into  the 


140  The  Maranas 

quaint  old  room — a  woman  magnificently  dressed,  though 
her  travelling  carriage  was  besplashed  by  the  mire  of 
many  roads,  for  she  had  crossed  Italy  and  France  and 
Spain.  It  was  La  Marana  !  La  Marana,  in  spite  of  her 
thirty-six  years  and  her  riotous  life,  in  the  full  pride  of 
her  belta  folgorante^  to  record  the  superb  epithet  invented 
for  her  in  Milan  by  her  enraptured  adorers.  La  Marana, 
the  openly  avowed  mistress  of  a  King,  had  left  Naples 
and  its  festivals  and  sunny  skies,  at  the  very  height  and 
summit  of  her  strange  career — had  left  gold  and  madrigals 
and  silk  and  perfumes,  and  her  royal  lover,  when  she 
learned  from  him  what  was  passing  in  Spain,  and  how 
that  Taragona  was  besieged. 

*  Taragona  !  '  she  cried,  '  and  before  the  city  is  taken  ! 
I  must  be  in  Taragona  in  ten  days  !  '  And  without 
another  thought  for  courts  or  crowned  heads,  she  had 
reached  Taragona,  provided  with  a  passport  that  gave 
her  something  like  the  powers  of  an  empress,  and 
with  gold  that  enabled  her  to  cross  the  French  empire 
with  the  speed  and  splendour  of  a  rocket.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  distance  for  a  mother  ;  she  who  is  a  mother, 
indeed,  sees  her  child,  and  knows  by  instinct  how  he 
fares  though  they  are  as  far  as  the  poles  apart. 

'  My  daughter  ?  my  daughter  ?  '  cried  La  Marana. 

At  that  cry,  at  this  swift  invasion  of  their  house, 
and  apparition ,  of  a  queen  travelling  incognito^  Perez 
and  his  wife  let  the  prayer-book  fall  j  that  voice  rang  in 
their  ears  like  a  thunder-clap,  and  La  Marana's  eyes 
flashed  lightnings. 

*  She  is  in  there,'  the  merchant  answered  quietly,  after 
a  brief  pause,  during  which  they  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  surprise  caused  by  La  Marana's  sudden  appear- 
ance, and  by  her  look  and  tone.  *She  is  in  there,'  he 
said  again,  indicating  the  little  hiding-place. 

'  Yes,  but  has  she  not  been  ill  ?     Is  she  quite ' 

*  Perfectly  well,'  said  Dona  Lagounia. 

*  Oh,  God  !  '  cried  La  Marana,  '  plunge  me  now  in 


The  Maranas  141 

hell  for  all  eternity,  if  it  be  Thy  pleasure,'  and  she  sank 
down  utterly  exhausted  into  a  chair. 

The  flush  that  anxiety  had  brought  to  her  face  faded 
suddenly  ;  her  cheeks  grew  white  ;  she  who  had  borne 
up  bravely  under  the  strain,  had  no  strength  left  when  it 
was  over.  The  joy  was  too  intolerable,  a  joy  more 
intense  than  her  previous  distress,  for  she  was  still 
vibrating  with  dread,  when  bliss  keen  as  anguish  came 
upon  her. 

'But  how  have  you  done?'  she  asked.  *Taragona 
was  taken  by  assault.' 

*  Yes,'  answered  Perez.  '  But  when  you  saw  that  I  was 
alive,  how  could  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  How  should 
any  one  reach  Juana  but  over  my  dead  body.' 

The  courtesan  grasped  Perez'  horny  hand  on  receiving 
this  answer  j  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  fell  upon  his 
fingers  as  she  kissed  them — the  costliest  of  all  things 
under  the  sun  for  her,  who  never  wept. 

*  Brave  Perez  !  '  she  said  at  last  ;  '  but  surely  there  are 
soldiers  billeted  upon  you,  are  there  not  ?  ' 

*  Only  one,'  answered  the  Spaniard.  '  Luckily,  we 
have  one  of  the  most  honourable  of  men,  an  Italian  by 
nationality,  a  Spaniard  by  birth,  a  hater  of  Bonaparte,  a 
married  man,  a  steady  character.  He  rises  late,  and  goes 
to  bed  early.     He  is  in  bad  health,  too,  just  now.' 

*  An  Italian  !     What  is  his  name  ?  ' 

'  Captain  Montefiore,  he ' 

'  Why,  he  is  not  the  Marchese  di  Montefiore,  is  he  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  seîiora,  the  very  same.' 
'  Has  he  seen  Juana  ?  ' 
'  No,'  said  Doiia  Lagounia. 

*  You  are  mistaken,  wife,' said  Perez.  'The  Marquis 
must  have  seen  Juana  once,  only  for  a  moment,  it  is  true, 
but  I  think  he  must  have  seen  her  that  day  when  she 
came  in  at  supper-time.' 

*  Ah  ! — I  should  like  to  see  my  daughter.' 
'  Nothing  is  easier,'  said  Perez.    'She  is  asleep.    Though 


14.2  The  Maranas 

if  she  has  left  the  key  in  the  lock,  we  shall  have  to  wake 
her. 

As  the  merchant  rose  to  take  down  the  duplicate  key 
from  its  place,  he  happened  to  glance  up  through  the  tall 
window.  The  light  from  the  large  round  pane-opening 
of  Juana's  cell  fell  upon  the  dark  wall  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  yard,  tracing  a  gleaming  circle  there,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  lighted  space  he  saw  two  shadowy 
figures  such  as  no  sculptor  till  the  time  of  the  gifted 
Canova  could  have  dreamed  of.  The  Spaniard  turned 
to  the  room  again. 

*  I  do  not  know,'  he  said  to  La  Marana,  '  where  we 
have  put  the  key ' 

'  You  look  very  pale  !  '  she  exclaimed. 

'  I  will  soon  tell  you  why,'  he  answered,  as  he  sprang 
towards  his  dagger,  caught  it  up,  and  beat  violently  on 
the  door  in  the  panelling.  *  Open  the  door  !  '  he  shouted. 
* Juana  !  open  the  door  ! ' 

There  was  an  appalling  despair  in  his  tones  that  struck 
terror  into  the  two  women  who  heard  him. 

Juana  did  not  open,  because  there  was  some  delay  in 
hiding  Montefiore.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  had 
passed  in  the  room  without.  The  tapestry  hangings  on 
either  side  of  the  door  deadened  all  sounds. 

*  Madame,'  said  Perez,  turning  to  La  Marana,  '  I  told 
you  just  now  that  I  did  not  know  where  the  key  was. 
That  was  a  lie.  Here  it  is,'  and  he  took  it  from  the 
sideboard,  '  but  it  is  useless.  *  Juana's  key  is  in  the  lock, 
and  her  door  is  barricaded. — We  are  deceived,  wife  ! 
There  is  a  man  in  Juana's  room.' 

*  By  my  hopes  of  salvation,  the  thing  is  impossible  !  * 
said  Dona  Lagounia. 

*  Do  not  perjure  yourself,  Dofia  Lagounia.  Our 
honour  is  slain  ;  and  she^  (he  turned  to  La  Marana,  who 
had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  stood  motionless  as  if  thunder- 
struck by  his  words),  *  she  may  well  scorn  us.  She  saved 
our  lives,  our   fortune,  and  our  honour,  and   we  have 


The  Maranas  143 

barely  guarded  her  money  for  her. — ^Juana,  open  the 
door  !  '  he  shouted,  '  or  I  will  break  it  down  !  ' 

The  whole  house  rang  with  the  cry  ;  his  voice  grew 
louder  and  angrier  ;  but  he  was  cool  and  self-possessed. 
He  held  Montefiore's  life  in  his  hands,  in  another  moment 
he  would  wash  away  his  remorse  in  every  drop  of  the 
Italian's  blood. 

'  Go  out  !  go  out  !  go  out  !  all  of  you  I  '  cried  La  Marana, 
and  springing  upon  the  dagger  like  a  tigress,  she  snatched 
it  from  the  hands  of  the  astonished  Perez.  '  Go  out  of 
this  room,  Perez,'  she  went  on,  speaking  quite  quietly 
now.  '  Go  out,  you  and  your  wife,  and  the  maid  and 
the  apprentice.  There  will  be  a  murder  here  directly, 
and  you  might  all  be  shot  down  by  the  French  for  it. 
Do  not  you  mix  yourself  up  in  it,  it  is  my  affair  entirely. 
When  my  daughter  and  I  meet,  God  alone  should  be 
present.  As  for  the  man,  he  is  mine.  The  whole  world 
should  not  snatch  him  out  of  my  hands.  There,  there, 
go!  I  forgive  you.  I  see  it  all.  The  girl  is  a  Marana. 
My  blood  flows  in  her  veins,  and  you,  your  religion,  and 
your  honour  have  been  powerless  against  it.' 

Her  groan  was  dreadful  to  hear.  She  turned  dry  eyes 
upon  them.  She  had  lost  everything,  but  she  was 
accustomed  to  suffering  ;  she  was  a  courtesan.  The  door 
opened.  La  Marana  henceforth  heeded  nothing  else, 
and  Perez,  making  a  sign  to  his  wife,  could  remain  at 
his  post.  The  old  Spaniard,  implacable  where  honour 
was  concerned,  determined  to  assist  the  wronged  mother's 
vengeance.  Juana,  in  her  white  draperies,  stood  quietly 
there  in  her  room  in  the  soft  lamplight.  '  What  do  you 
want  with  me  ?  '  she  asked. 

In  spite  of  herself,  a  light  shudder  ran  through  La 
Marana. 

'  Perez,'  she  asked,  *  is  there  any  other  way  out  of  this 

1  closet  ?  ' 

Perez  shook  his  head  ;  and  on  that  the  courtesan  went 
into  the  room. 


144  The  Maranas 

*  Juana,'  she  said,  *  I  am  your  mother,  youi  judge — 
you  have  put  yourself  in  the  one  situation  in  which  I  can 
reveal  myself  to  you.  You  have  come  to  my  level,  you 
whom  I  had  thought  to  raise  to  heaven.  Oh  !  you  have 
fallen  very  low  !  .  .  .  You  have  a  lover  in  your  room.' 

*  Madame,  no  one  but  my  husband  should  or  could  be 
there,'  she  answered.    '  I  am  the  Marchesa  di  Montefiore.' 

*  Then  are  there  two  of  them  ?  '  asked  old  Perez 
sternly.     '  He  told  me  that  he  was  married.' 

*  Montefiore  !  my  love  !  '  cried  the  girl,  rending  the 
curtains,  and  discovering  the  officer  ;  '  come  forward, 
these  people  are  slandering  you.' 

The  Italian's  face  was  haggard  and  pale  ;  he  saw  the 
dagger  in  La  Marana's  hand,  and  he  knew  La  Marana. 
At  one  bound  he  sprang  out  of  the  chamber,  and  with  a 
voice  of  thunder  shouted,  *  Help  !  help  !  murder  !  they 
are  killing  a  Frenchman  ! — Soldiers  of  the  Sixth  of  the 
line,  run  for  Captain  Diard  !   .  .  .  Help  !  ' 

Perez  had  secured  the  Marquis,  and  was  about  to  gag 
him  by  putting  his  large  hand  over  the  soldier's  mouth, 
when  the  courtesan  stopped  him. 

*  Hold  him  fast,'  she  said,  'but  let  him  call.  Throw  open 
the  doors,  and  leave  them  open  ;  and  now  go  out,  all  of 
you,  I  tell  you  ! — As  for  you,'  she  continued,  addressing 
Montefiore,  '  shout,  and  call  for  help.  ...  As  soon  as 
there  is  a  sound  of  your  men's  footsteps,  this  blade  will  be 
in  your  heart.  .  .  .  Are  you  married  ?     Answer  me.' 

Montefiore,  lying  across  the  threshold  of  the  door,  two 
paces  from  Juana,  heard  nothing,  and  saw  nothing,  for  the 
blinding  gleam  of  the  dagger  blade. 

'  Then  he  meant  to  deceive  me  ;  *  the  words  came 
slowly  from  Juana.     '  He  told  me  that  he  was  free.' 

'  He  told  me  that  he  was  a  married  man,'  said  Perez, 
in  the  same  stern  tones  as  before. 

*  Holy  Virgin  !  '  exclaimed  Doria  Lagounia.  La 
Marana  stooped  to  mutter  in  the  ear  of  the  Marquis, 
'  Answer  me,  will  you,  soul  of  mud  ?  ' 


The  Maranas  145 

*  Your  daughter  .  .  .'  Montefiore  began. 

*  The  daughter  I  once  had  is  dead,  or  she  soon  will  be,' 
said  La  Marana.  '  I  have  no  daughter  now.  Do  not 
use  that  word  again.     Answer  me,  are  you  married  ?  ' 

'  No,  Madame,'  Montefiore  said  at  last  (he  wished  to 
gain  time)  ;  '  I  mean  to  marry  your  daughter.' 

*  My  noble  Montefiore  !  '  cried  Juana,  with  a  deep 
breath. 

*  Then  what  made  you  fly  and  call  for  help  ?  '  demanded 
Perez. 

Terrible  perspicacity  ! 

Juana  said  nothing,  but  she  wrung  her  hands,  went 
over  to  her  armchair,  and  sat  down.  Even  at  that 
moment  there  was  an  uproar  in  the  street,  and  in  the 
deep  silence  that  fell  upon  the  parlour  it  was  sufficiently 
easy  to  catch  the  sounds.  A  private  soldier  of  the  Sixth, 
who  had  chanced  to  pass  along  the  street  when  Monte- 
fiore cried  out  for  help,  had  gone  to  call  up  Diard. 
Luckily,  the  quartermaster  was  in  his  lodging,  and  came 
at  once  with  several  comrades. 

*  Why  did  I  fly  ?  '  repeated  Montefiore,  who  heard 
the  sound  of  his  friend's  voice.  '  Because  I  had  told  you 
the  truth, — Diard  !   Diard  !  '  he  shrieked  aloud. 

But  at  a  word  from  Perez,  who  meant  that  all  in  his 
house  should  share  in  the  murder,  the  apprentice  made 
the  door  fast,  and  the  men  were  obliged  to  force  it  open. 
La  Marana,  therefore,  could  stab  the  guilty  creature  at 
her  feet  before  they  made  an  entrance  ;  but  her  hand 
shook  with  pent-up  wrath,  and  the  blade  slipped  aside 
upon  Montefiore's  epaulette.  Yet  so  heavy  had  been  the 
blow,  that  the  Italian  rolled  over  almost  at  Juana's  feet. 
The  girl  did  not  see  him,  but  La  Marana  sprang  upon 
her  prey,  and,  lest  she  should  fail  this  time,  she  held  his 
throat  in  an  iron  grasp,  and  pointed  the  dagger  at  his 
I  heart. 

*  I  am  free  !  '  he  gasped.     *  I  will  marry  her  !    I  swear 
|it  by  God  !  by  my  mother  !  by  all  that  is  most  sacred  in 

K 


146  The  Maranas 

this  world.  ...  I  am  not  married  !  I  will  marry  her  ! 
Upon  my  word  of  honour,  I  will  !  '  and  he  set  his  teeth 
in  the  courtesan's  arm. 

*  That  is  enough,  mother,'  said  Juana  ;  '  kill  him  !  I 
would  not  have  such  a  coward  for  my  husband  if  he 
were  ten  times  more  beautiful.' 

'  Ah  !  that  is  my  daughter  !  '  cried  La  Marana. 

'  What  is  going  on  here  ?  '  asked  the  quartermaster, 
looking  about  him. 

'  This,'  shouted  Montefiore  ;  '  they  are  murdering  me 
on  that  girl's  account  ;  she  says  that  I  am  her  lover  ;  she 
trapped  me,  and  now  they  want  to  force  me  to  marry 
her  against  my  will ' 

'Against  your  will?'  cried  Diard,  struck  with  the 
subhme  beauty  that  indignation,  scorn,  and  hate  had 
lent  to  Juana's  face,  already  so  fair.  '  You  are  very  hard 
to  please  !  If  she  must  have  a  husband,  here  am  I. 
Put  up  your  dagger.' 

La  Marana  grasped  the  Italian,  pulled  him  to  his  feet, 
brought  him  to  the  bedside,  and  said  in  his  ear — 

'  If  I  spare  your  life,  you  may  thank  that  last  speech 
of  yours  for  it.  But  keep  it  in  mind.  If  you  say  a 
word  against  my  daughter,  we  shall  see  each  other  again. 
— What  will  her  dowry  amount  to  ?  '  she  asked  of  Perez. 

'  Two  hundred  thousand  piastres  down ' 

'That  will- not  be  all.  Monsieur,' said  the  courtesan, 
addressing  Diard.  'Who  are  you? — You  can  go,' she 
added,  turning  to  Montefiore. 

But  when  the  Marquis  heard  mention  of  two  hundred 
thousand  piastres  down,  he  came  forward,  saying,  '  I  am 
really  quite  free ' 

'  You  are  really  quite  free  to  go,'  said  La  Marana,  and 
the  Italian  went. 

'  Alas  !  Monsieur,'  the  girl  spoke,  addressing  Diard  ; 
'  I  thank  you,  and  I  admire  you.  But  my  bridegroom  is 
in  heaven  ;  I  shall  be  the  bride  of  Christ.  To-morrow 
I  shall  enter  the  convent  of ' 


The  Maranas  147 

*Oh,  hush!  hush!  Juana,  my  Juana  !  '  cried  her 
mother,  holding  the  girl  tightly  in  her  arms.  Then  she 
whispered,  '  You  must  take  another  bridegroom.' 

Juana  turned  pale. 

'  Who  are  you,  monsieur  ?  '  asked  the  mother  of  the 
Provençal. 

'  I  am  nothing  as  yet  but  a  quartermaster  in  the  Sixth 
Regiment  of  the  line,'  said  he  ;  '  but  for  such  a  wife,  a 
man  would  feel  that  it  lay  in  him  to  be  a  Marshal  of 
France  some  day.  My  name  is  Pierre-François  Diard. 
My  father  was  a  guild  magistrate,  so  I  am  not  a ' 

'  Eh  !  you  are  an  honest  man,  are  you  not  ?  '  cried  La 
Marana.  *  If  the  Signorina  Juana  dei  Mancini  cares  for 
you,  you  may  both  be  happy. — Juana,'  she  went  on 
gravely,  '  when  you  are  the  wife  of  a  good  and  worthy 
man,  remember  that  you  will  be  a  mother.  I  have 
sworn  that  you  shall  set  a  kiss  upon  your  child's  fore- 
head without  a  blush  .  .  .  (Here  her  tone  changed  some- 
what. )  I  have  sworn  that  you  shall  be  a  virtuous  wife. 
So  in  this  life,  though  many  troubles  await  you,  whatever 
happens  to  you,  be  a  chaste  and  faithful  wife  to  your 
husband  ;  sacrifice  everything  to  him  ;  he  will  be  the 
father  of  your  children.  ...  A  father  to  your  children  ! 
.  .  .  Stay,  between  you  and  a  lover  your  mother  always 
will  stand  ;  I  shall  be  your  mother  only  when  danger 
threatens.  .  .  .  Do  you  see  Perez's  dagger  ?  That  is 
part  of  your  dower,'  and  she  flung  the  weapon  down  on 
the  bed.  '  There  I  leave  it  as  a  guarantee  of  your 
honour,  so  long  as  I  have  eyes  to  see  and  hands  that  can 
strike  a  blow. — Farewell,'  she  said,  keeping  back  the 
tears  ;  '  heaven  send  that  we  never  meet  again,'  and  at 
that  her  tears  flowed  fast. 

*  Poor  child  !  you  have  been  very  happy  in  this  little 
cell,  happier  than  you  know. — Act  in  such  a  sort  that 
she  may  never  look  back  on  it  with  regret,'  she  added, 
looking  at  her  future  son-in-law. 

The  story,  which  has  been  given  simply  by  way  of 


148  The  Maranas 

introduction,  is  not  bv  :u\v  means  the  subject  of  the 
following  study  ;  it  has  been  told  to  expkiin,  in  the  first 
place,  how  Alontefiore  and  Diard  became  acquainted,  how 
Captain  Diard  came  to  marrv  Juana  dei  Mancini,  and  to 
make  known  what  passions  tilled  Mme.  Diard's  heart, 
what  blood  flowed  in  her  veins, 

Bv  the  time  that  the  quartermaster  had  been 
through  the  slow  and  tedious  formalities  indispensable 
for  a  French  soldier  who  is  obtaining  leave  to  marrv, 
he  had  follen  passionately  in  love  with  Juana  dei  Man- 
cini, and  Juana  dei  Mancini  had  had  time  to  reflect 
on  her  fate.  An  appalling  fate  !  Juana,  who  neither 
loved  nor  esteemed  this  Diard,  was  none  the  less  bound 
to  him  bv  a  promise,  a  rash  promise  no  doubt,  but  there 
had  been  no  help  for  it.  The  Provençtil  was  neither 
handsome  nor  well  made.  His  manners  were  totally 
lacking  in  distinction,  and  savoured  of  the  camp,  of  his 
provincial  bringing  up  and  imperfect  education.  How 
should  the  voung  girl  love  Diard  r  With  her  perfect 
elegance  and  grace,  her  unconquerable  instinct  for  luxury 
and  refinement,  her  natural  drawings  were  towards  the 
higher  spheres  of  society  ;  and  as  for  esteem,  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  feel  so  much  as  esteem  for  this  Diard 
who  was  to  marry  her,  and  precisely  for  that  very 
reason. 

The  repugnance  was  very  natural.  Woman  is  a 
sacred  and  gracious  being,  almost  always  misunderstood  ; 
the  judgments  passed  upon  her  are  almost  always  unjust, 
because  she  is  not  understood.  If  Juana  had  loved 
Diard,  she  would  have  esteemed  him.  Love  creates  a 
new  self  within  a  woman  ;  the  old  self  passes  away  with 
the  dawn  of  love,  and  in  the  wedding-robe  of  a  passion 
that  shall  last  as  long  as  life  itself,  her  life  is  invested 
with  whiteness  and  purity.  After  this  new  birth,  this 
revival  of  modestv  and  virtue,  she  has  no  longer  a  past; 
it  is  utterly  forgotten  ;  she  turns  wholly  to   the  future 


The  Maranas  149 

that  she  may  learn  all  things  afresh.  In  this  sense,  the 
words  of  the  famous  line  that  a  modern  poet  has  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Marion  Delorme,  a  line  moreover  that 
Corneille  might  well  have  written,  are  steeped  in  truth — 

'  ^d  Lcnje  gives  back  my  maidenhood  to  me.^ 

Does  it  not  read  like  a  reminiscence  of  some  tragedy  of 
Corneille's  ?  The  style  of  the  father  of  French  drama, 
so  forceful,  owing  so  little  to  epithet,  seems  to  be  revived 
again  in  the  words.  And  yet  the  writer,  the  poet  of  our 
own  day,  has  been  compelled  to  sacrifice  it  to  the  taste 
of  a  public  only  capable  of  appreciating  vaudevilles. 

So  Juana,  loveless,  was  still  the  same  Juana,  betrayed, 
humiliated,  brought  very  low.  How  should  this  Juana 
respect  a  man  who  could  take  her  thus?  With  the 
high-minded  purity  of  youth,  she  felt  the  force  of  a 
distinction,  subtle  in  appearance,  but  real  and  immutable, 
a  binding  law  upon  the  heart,  which  even  the  least 
thoughtful  women  instinctively  apply  to  all  their  senti- 
ments. Life  had  opened  out  before  Juana,  and  the 
prospect  saddened  her  inmost  soul. 

Often  she  looked  at  Perez  and  Dona  Lagounia,  her 
eyes  full  of  the  tears  she  was  too  proud  to  let  fall  j  they 
understood  the  bitter  thoughts  contained  in  those  tears, 
but  they  said  no  word.  Were  not  reproaches  useless  ? 
And  why  should  they  seek  to  comfort  her  ?  The  keener 
the  sympathy,  the  wider  the  pent-up  sorrow  would  spread. 

One  evening,  as  Juana  sat  in  her  little  cell  in  a  dull 
stupor  of  wretchedness,  she  heard  the  husband  and  wife 
talking  together.  They  thought  that  the  door  was  shut, 
and  a  wail  broke  from  her  adopted  mother. 

'  The  poor  child  will  die  of  grief  !  ' 

'  Yes,'  answered  Perez  in  a  faltering  voice  j  '  but  what 
can  we  do  ?  Can  I  go  now  to  boast  of  my  ward's 
I  chaste  beauty  to  the  Comte  d'Arcos,  to  whom  I  hoped 
j  to  marry  her  ?  ' 

*  There  is  a  difference  between  one  slip  and  vice,'  said 


150  The  Maranas 

the  old  woman,  indulgent  as  an  angel  could  have 
been. 

*  Her  mother  gave  her  to  him,'  objected  Perez. 

'  All  in  a  minute,  and  without  consulting  her  !  '  cried 
Doiia  Lagounia. 

*  She  knew  quite  well  what  she  was  doing ' 

'  Into  what  hands  our  pearl  will  pass  !  ' 

*  Not  a  word  more,  or  I  will  go  and  pick  a  quarrel  with 
that Diard  !  ' 

*  And  then  there  would  be  one  more  misfortune.' 
Juana,  listening  to  these  terrible  words,  knew  at  last 

the  value  of  the  happy  life  that  had  flowed  on  untroubled 
until  her  error  ended  it.  So  the  innocent  hours  in  her 
peaceful  retreat  were  to  have  been  crowned  by  a  brilliant 
and  splendid  existence  ;  the  delights  so  often  dreamed  of 
would  have  been  hers.  Those  dreams  had  caused  her 
ruin.  She  had  fallen  from  the  heights  of  social  greatness 
to  the  feet  of  Monsieur  Diard  !  Juana  wept  ;  her 
thoughts  almost  drove  her  mad.  For  several  seconds  she 
hesitated  between  a  life  of  vice  and  religion.  Vice 
offered  a  prompt  solution  ;  religion,  a  life  made  up  of 
suffering.  The  inward  debate  was  stormy  and  solemn. 
To-morrow  was  the  fatal  day,  the  day  fixed  for  this 
marriage.  It  was  not  too  late  ;  Juana  might  be  Juana 
still.  If  she  remained  free,  she  knew  the  utmost  extent 
of  her  calamities  ;  but  when  married,  she  could  not  tell 
what  might  lie  in  store  for  her.  Religion  gained  the 
day.  Doiia  Lagounia  came  to  watch  and  pray  by  her 
daughter's  side,  as  she  might  have  done  by  a  dying 
woman's  bed. 

*  It  is  the  will  of  God,'  she  said  to  Juana.  Nature 
gives  to  a  woman  a  power  peculiarly  her  own,  that 
enables  her  to  endure  suffering,  a  power  succeeded  in  turn 
by  weakness  that  counsels  resignation.  Juana  submitted 
without  an  after-thought.  She  determined  to  fulfil  her 
mother's  vow,  to  cross  the  desert  of  life,  and  bO  reach 
heaven,  knowing  that  no   flowers  could   spring  in   the 


The  Maranas  151 

thorny  paths  that  lay  before  her.  She  married 
Diard. 

As  for  the  quartermaster,  though  Juana  judged  him 
pitilessly,  who  else  would  not  have  forgiven  him  ?  He 
was  intoxicated  with  love.  La  Marana,  with  the  quick 
instinct  natural  to  her,  had  felt  passion  in  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  and  seen  in  him  the  abrupt  temper,  the  im- 
pulsive generosity  of  the  South.  In  the  paroxysm  of  her 
great  anger,  she  had  seen  Diard's  good  qualities,  and  these 
only,  and  thought  that  these  were  sufficient  guarantees 
for  her  daughter's  happiness. 

And  to  all  appearance  the  early  days  of  this  marriage 
were  happy.  But  to  lay  bare  the  underlying  facts  of  the 
case,  the  miserable  secrets  that  women  bury  in  the  depths 
of  their  souls,  Juana  had  determined  that  she  would  not 
overcloud  her  husband's  joy.  All  women  who  are  victims 
of  an  ill-assorted  marriage,  come  sooner  or  later  to  play 
a  double  part — a  part  terrible  to  play,  and  Juana  had 
already  taken  up  her  rôle.  Of  such  a  life,  a  man  can 
only  record  the  facts  ;  and  women's  hearts  alone  can  divine 
the  inner  life  of  sentiments.  Is  it  not  a  story  impossible 
to  relate  in  all  its  truth  ?  Juana,  struggling  every  hour 
against  her  own  nature,  half  Spanish,  half  Italian  ;  Juana, 
shedding  tears  in  secret  till  she  had  no  tears  left  to  shed, 
was  a  typical  creation,  a  living  symbol,  destined  to  repre- 
sent the  uttermost  extent  of  woman's  misfortunes.  The 
minute  detail  required  to  depict  that  life  of  restless  pain 
would  be  without  interest  for  those  who  crave  melo- 
dramatic sensation.  And  would  not  an  analysis,  in  which 
every  wife  would  discover  some  of  her  own  experience, 
require  an  entire  volume  if  it  were  to  be  given  in  full  ? 
Such  a  book,  by  its  very  nature,  would  be  impossible  to 
write,  for  its  merits  must  consist  in  half-tones  and  in 
subtle  shades  of  colour  that  critics  would  consider  vague 
and  indistinct.  And  besides,  who  that  does  not  bear 
another  heart  within  his  heart  can  touch  on  the  pathetic, 
deeply-hidden  tragedies  that  some  women  take  with  them 


15*  The  Maranas 

to  their  graves  ;  the  heartache,  understood  of  none — n 
even  of  those  who  cause  it  ;  the  sighs  in  vain  ;  tl 
devotion  that,  here  on  earth  at  least,  meets  with 
return  j  unappreciated  magnanimities  of  silence  ar 
scorn  of  vengeance  ;  unfailing  generosity,  lavished 
vain  ;  longings  for  happiness  destined  to  be  unfulfille 
angelic  charity  that  blesses  in  secret  ;  all  the  belie 
held  sacred,  all  the  inextinguishable  love  ?  This  li 
Juana  knew  ;  fate  spared  her  in  nothing.  Hers  was  to  1 
in  all  things  the  lot  of  a  wronged  and  unhappy  wif 
always  forgiving  her  wrongs  ;  a  woman  pure  as  a  flawle 
diamond,  though  through  her  beauty,  as  flawless  and  ; 
dazzling  as  the  diamond,  a  way  of  revenge  lay  open  t 
her.  Of  a  truth,  she  need  not  dread  the  dagger  in  h( 
dower. 

But  at  first,  under  the  influence  of  love,  of  a  passio 
that  for  a  while  at  least  can  work  a  change  in  the  moi 
depraved  nature,  and  bring  to  light  all  that  is  noblest  i 
a  human  soul,  Diard  behaved  like  a  man  of  honour.  H 
compelled  Montefiore  to  go  out  of  the  regiment,  an 
even  out  of  that  division  of  the  army,  that  his  wife  migl 
not  be  compelled  to  meet  the  Marquis  during  the  sho 
time  that  she  was  to  remain  in  Spain.  Then  the  quarte 
master  asked  to  change  his  regiment,  and  managed 
exchange  into  the  Imperial  Guard.  He  meant  at  a 
costs  to  gain  a  title  j  he  would  have  honours  and  a  gre 
position  to  match  his  great  fortune.  With  this  t^-ougl 
in  his  mind,  he  displayed  great  courage  in  one  of  ou 
bloodiest  battles  in  Germany,  and  was  so  badly  wounde 
that  he  could  no  longer  stay  in  the  service.  For  a  tim 
it  was  feared  that  he  might  have  to  lose  his  leg,  and 
was  forced  to  retire,  with  his  pension  indeed,  but  withou 
the  title  of  baron  or  any  of  the  rewards  which  he  hai 
hoped  for,  and  very  likely  would  have  won,  if  his  nam 
had  not  been  Diard. 

These  events,  together  with  his  wound  and  his  dis 
appointed  hopes,  made  a  changed  man  of  the  late  quarter 


The  Maranas  153 

master.  The  Provencal's  energy,  wrought  for  a  time  to 
a  fever  pitch,  suddenly  deserted  him.  At  first,  however, 
his  wife  sustained  his  courage  ;  his  efforts,  his  bravery, 
and  his  ambition  had  given  her  some  belief  in  her  hus- 
band ;  and  surely  it  behoved  her,  of  all  women,  to  play  a 
woman's  part,  to  be  a  tender  consoler  for  the  troubles 
of  life. 

Juana's  words   put  fresh  heart  into  the  Major.     He 
went    to   live    in    Paris,    determined    to    make    a   high 
position  for  himself  in  the  Administration  ;  the  quarter- 
master  of   the   Sixth    Line    Regiment   should    be   for- 
gotten,  and  some  day  Madame    Diard   should  wear   a 
splendid  title.     His  passion   for  his  charming  wife  had 
made  him  quick  to  guess  her  inmost  wishes.     Juana  did 
not  speak  of  them,  but  he  understood  her  ;  he  was  not 
oved  as  a  man  dreams  of  being  loved — he  knew  it,  and 
onged  to  be  looked  up  to  and  loved  and  caressed.     The 
uckless  man  anticipated  happiness  with  a  wife  who  was 
t  all  times  so  submissive  and  so  gentle  ;  but  her  gentle- 
ess  and  her  submission  meant  nothing  but  that  resig- 
ation    to    her   fate    which    had    given   Juana   to   him. 
esignation  and  religion,  were  these  love  ?     Diard  could 
ften   have   wished   for  a  refusal  instead  of  that  wifely 
bedience  ;  often  he  would  have  given  his  soul  if  Juana 
ould  but  have   deigned  to  weep  upon  his  breast,  and 
eased  to  conceal  her  feelings  with  the  smile  that  she 
vore  proudly  as  a  mask  upon  her  face. 
Many  a  man  in  his  youth  (for  after  a  certain  time  we 
ve  up  struggling)  strives  to  triumph  over  an  evil  destiny 
hat  brings  the  thunder-clouds  from  time  to  time  above 
he  horizon  of  his  life  ;  and  when  he  falls  into  the  depths 
f  misfortune,  those  unrequited  struggles  should  be  taken 
to  account.     Like  many  another,  Diard  tried  all  ways, 
nd    found    all  ways    barred   against   him.     His  wealth 
nabled  him  to  surround  his  wife  with  all  the  luxuries 
lat  can  be  enjoyed  in  Paris.     She  had  a  great  mansion 
ad  vast  drawing-rooms,  and  presided  over  one  of  those 


154  The  Maranas 

houses  frequented  by  some  few  artists  who  are  uncritical 
by  nature,  by  a  great  many  schemers,  by  the  frivolous 
folk  who  are  ready  to  go  anywhere  to  be  amused,  and  by 
certain  men  of  fashion,  attracted  by  Juana's  beauty. 
Those  who  make  themselves  conspicuous  in  Paris  must 
either  conquer  Paris  or  fall  victims.  Diard's  character 
was  not  strong  enough,  nor  compact  enough,  nor  per- 
sistent enough,  to  impress  itself  upon  the  society  of  a 
time  when  every  one  else  was  likewise  bent  upon 
reaching  a  high  position.  Ready-made  social  classifica- 
tions are  not  improbably  a  great  blessing,  even  for  the 
people.  Napoleon's  Memoirs  have  informed  us  of  the 
pains  he  was  at  to  impose  social  conventions  upon  a 
Court  composed  for  the  most  part  of  subjects  who  had 
once  been  his  equals.  But  Napoleon  was  a  Corsican, 
Diard  was  a  Provençal. 

If  the  two  men  had  been  mentally  equal — an  islander 
is  always  a  more  complete  human  being  than  a  man  born 
and  bred  on  the  mainland  ;  and  though  Provence  and 
Corsica  lie  between  the  same  degrees  of  latitude,  the 
narrow  stretch  of  sea  that  keeps  them  apart  is,  in  spite  of 
man's  inventions,  a  whole  ocean  that  makes  two  different 
countries  of  them  both. 

From  this  false  position,  which  Diard  falsified  yet 
further,  grave  misfortunes  arose.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
useful  lesson  to  be  learned  by  tracing  the  chain  of  inter- 
dependent facts  that  imperceptibly  brought  about  the 
catastrophe  of  the  story. 

In  the  first  place,  Parisian  scoffers  could  not  see  the 
pictures  that  adorned  the  late  quartermaster's  mansion 
without  a  significant  smile.  The  recently  purchased 
masterpieces  were  all  condemned  by  the  unspoken  slur 
cast  upon  the  pictures  that  had  been  the  spoils  of  war 
in  Spain  j  by  this  slur,  self-love  avenged  itself  for  the 
involuntary  offence  of  Diard's  wealth.  Juana  understood 
the  meaning  of  some  of  the  ambiguous  compliments  in 
which  the  French  excel.     Acting  upon  her  advice,  there- 


The  Maranas  155 

fore,  her  husband  sent  the  Spanish  pictures  back  to 
Taragona.  But  the  world  of  Paris,  determined  to  put 
the  worst  construction  on  the  matter,  said,  *  That  fellow 
Diard  is  shrewd  ;  he  has  sold  his  pictures,'  and  the  good 
folk  continued  to  believe  that  the  paintings  which  still 
hung  on  the  walls  had  not  been  honestly  come  by. 
Then  some  ill-natured  women  inquired  how  a  Diard 
had  come  to  marry  a  young  wife  so  rich  and  so  beautiful. 
Comments  followed,  endless  absurdities  were  retailed, 
after  the  manner  of  Paris.  If  Juana  rose  above  it  all, 
even  above  the  scandal,  and  met  with  nothing  but  the 
respect  due  to  her  pure  and  devout  life,  that  respect 
nded  with  her,  and  was  not  accorded  to  her  husband. 
Her  shining  eyes  glanced  over  her  rooms,  and  her 
woman's  clear-sightedness  brought  her  nothing  but 
pain.  And  yet — the  disparagement  was  quite  explic- 
ible.  Military  men,  for  all  the  virtues  with  which 
■omance  endows  them,  could  not  forgive  the  quondam 
ijuartermaster  for  his  wealth  and  his  determination  to 
:ut  a  figure  in  Paris,  and  for  that  very  reason. 

There  is  a  world  in  Paris  that  lies  between  the  furthest 
louse  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  on  the  one  hand, 
nd  the  last  mansion  in  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare  on  the 
)ther  ;  between  the  rising  ground  of  the  Luxembourg 
md  the  heights  of  Montmartre  ;  a  world  that  dresses 
ind  gossips,  dresses  to  go  out,  and  goes  out  to  gossip  ;  a 
vorld  of  petty  and  great  airs  ;  a  world  of  mean  and  poor 
mbitions,  masquerading  in  insolence  ;  a  world  of  envy 
nd  of  fawning  arts.  It  is  made  up  of  gilded  rank,  and 
ank  that  has  lost  its  gilding,  of  young  and  old,  of 
lobility  of  the  fourth  century  and  titles  of  yesterday,  of 
hose  who  laugh  at  the  expense  of  a  parvenu^  and  others 
vho  fear  to  be  contaminated  by  him,  of  men  eager  for 
he  downfall  of  a  power,  though  none  the  less  they  will 
ow  the  knee  to  it  if  it  holds  its  own  ;  and  all  these  ears 
ear,  and  all  these  tongues  repeat,  and  all  these  minds 
re  informed  in  the  course  of  an  evening  of  the  birth- 


156  The  Maranas 

place,  education,  and  previous  history  of  each  new 
aspirant  for  its  high  places.  If  there  is  no  High  Court 
of  Justice  in  this  exalted  sphere,  it  boasts  the  most  ruth- 
less of  procureurs-généraux,  an  intangible  public  opinion 
that  dooms  the  victim  and  carries  out  the  sentence,  that 
accuses  and  brands  the  delinquent.  Do  not  hope  to 
hide  anything  from  this  tribunal,  tell  everything  at  once 
yourself,  for  it  is  determined  to  go  to  the  bottom  of 
everything,  and  knows  everything.  Do  not  seek  to 
understand  the  mysterious  operation  by  which  intelli- 
gence is  flashed  from  place  to  place,  so  that  a  story,  a 
scandal,  or  a  piece  of  news  is  known  everywhere  simul- 
taneously in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Do  not  ask  who 
set  the  machinery  in  motion  ;  it  is  a  social  mystery,  no 
observer  can  do  more  than  watch  its  phenomena,  and 
its  working  is  rapid  beyond  belief.  A  single  example 
shall  suffice.  The  murder  of  the  Due  de  Berri,  at  the 
Opéra,  was  known  in  the  furthest  part  of  the  He  Saint- 
Louis  ten  minutes  after  the  crime  was  committed. 
The  opinion  of  the  Sixth  Regiment  of  the  Line 
concerning  Diard  permeated  this  world  of  Paris  on 
the  very  evening  of  his  first  ball. 

So  Diard  himself  could  accomplish  nothing.  Hence- 
forward his  wife,  and  his  wife  alone,  might  make  a  way 
for  him.  Strange  portent  of  a  strange  civilisation  !  If 
a  man  can  do  nothing  by  himself  in  Paris,  he  has  still 
some  chance  of  rising  in  the  world  if  his  wife  is  young 
and  clever.  There  are  women,  weak  to  all  appearance, 
invalids  who,  without  rising  from  their  sofas  or  leaving 
their  rooms,  make  their  influence  felt  in  society  ;  and  by 
bringing  countless  secret  springs  into  play,  gain  for 
their  husbands  the  position  which  their  own  vanity 
desires.  But  Juana,  whose  girlhood  had  been  spent  in 
the  quaint  simplicity  of  the  narrow  house  in  Taragona, 
knew  nothing  of  the  corruption,  the  baseness,  or  the 
opportunities  afforded  by  life  in  Paris  ;  she  looked  out 
upon  it  with  girlish  curiosity,  and  learned  from  it  no 


The  Maranas  157 

worldly  wisdom  save  the  lessons  taught  her  by  her 
wounded  pride  and  susceptibilities.  Juana,  moreover, 
possessed  the  quick  instinct  of  a  maiden  heart,  and  was 
as  swift  to  anticipate  an  impression  as  a  sensitive  plant. 
The  lonely  girl  had  become  a  woman  all  at  once.  She 
saw  that  if  she  endeavoured  to  compel  society  to  honour 
her  husband,  it  must  be  after  the  Spanish  fashion,  of 
telling  a  He,  carbine  in  hand.  Did  not  her  own  constant 
watchfulness  tell  her  how  necessary  her  manifold  precau- 
tions were  ?  A  gulf  yawned  for  Diard  between  the 
failure  to  make  himself  respected  and  the  opposite 
danger  of  being  respected  but  too  much.  Then  as 
suddenly  as  before,  when  she  had  foreseen  her  life,  there 
:ame  a  revelation  of  the  world  to  her  ;  she  beheld  on  all 
iides  the  vast  extent  of  an  irreparable  misfortune.  Then 
:ame  the  tardy  recognition  of  her  husband's  peculiar 
veaknesses,  his  total  unfitness  to  play  the  parts  he  had 
issigned  to  himself,  the  incoherency  of  his  ideas,  the 
nental  incapacity  to  grasp  this  society  as  a  whole,  or  to 
;omprehend  the  subtleties  that  are  all-important  there. 
A^'ould  not  tact  effect  more  for  a  man  in  his  position 
han  force  of  character  ?  But  the  tact  that  never  fails 
5  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  forces. 

So  far  from  effacing  the  blot  upon  the  Diard  scutcheon, 
he  Major  was  at  no  httle  pains  to  make  matters  worse, 
"or  instance,  as  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the 
empire  was  passing  through  a  phase  that  required  care- 
ul  study,  he  tried,  though  he  was  only  a  major,  to 
btain  an  appointment  as  prefect.  At  that  time  almost 
very  one  believed  in  Napoleon  ;  his  favour  had  increased 
tie  importance  of  every  post.  The  prefectures,  those 
mpires  on  a  small  scale,  could  only  be  filled  by  men 
Mth  great  names,  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  household  of 
is  Majesty  the  Emperor  and  King.  The  prefects  by 
lis  time  were  Grand  Viziers.  These  minions  of  the 
reat  man  laughed  at  Major  Diard's  artless  ambitions, 
id  he  was  fain  to  solicit  a  sub-prefecture.     His  modest 


158  The  Maranas 

pretensions  were  ludicrously  disproportioned  to  his  vast 
wealth.  After  this  ostentatious  display  of  luxury,  how 
could  the  millionaire  leave  the  royal  splendours  of  his 
house  in  Paris  for  Issoudun  or  Savenay  ?  Would  it  not 
be  a  descent  unworthy  of  his  fortunes  ?  Juana,  who  all 
too  late  had  come  to  understand  our  laws,  and  the 
manners  and  customs  of  our  administration,  too  late 
enUghtened  her  husband.  Diard,  in  his  desperation, 
went  begging  to  all  the  powers  that  be  ;  but  Diard  met 
with  nothing  but  rebuffs,  no  way  was  open  to  him. 
Then  people  judged  him  as  the  Government  had  judged 
him,  and  passed  his  own  verdict  upon  himself.  Diard 
had  been  badly  wounded  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  Diard 
had  not  been  decorated.  The  quartermaster,  who  had 
gained  wealth,  but  no  esteem,  found  no  place  under  the 
government,  and  society  quite  logically  refused  him  the 
social  position  to  which  he  had  aspired.  In  short,  in  his 
own  house  the  unfortunate  man  continually  felt  that  his 
wife  was  his  superior.  He  had  come  to  feel  it  in  spite 
of  the  '  velvet  glove  '  (if  the  metaphor  is  not  too  bold) 
that  disguised  from  her  husband  the  supremacy  that 
astonished  her  herself,  while  she  felt  humiliated  by  it.  It 
produced  its  effect  upon  Diard  at  last. 

A  man  who  plays  a  losing  game  like  this  is  bound  to 
lose  heart,  and  to  grow  either  a  greater  or  a  worse  man 
for  it  ;  Diard's  courage,  or  his  passion,  was  sure  to 
diminish,  after  repeated  blows  dealt  to  his  self-love,  and  he 
made  mistake  upon  mistake.  From  the  first  everything 
had  been  against  him,  even  his  own  habits  and  his  own 
character.  The  vices  and  virtues  of  the  impulsive  Pro- 
vençal were  equally  patent.  The  fibres  of  his  nature 
were  like  harp  strings,  and  every  old  friend  had  a  place 
in  his  heart.  He  was  as  prompt  to  relieve  a  comrade  in 
abject  poverty  as  the  distress  of  another  of  high  rank  j 
in  short,  he  never  forgot  a  friend,  and  filled  his  gilded 
rooms  with  poor  wretches  down  on  their  luck.  Behold 
ing  which  things,  the  general  of  the  old  stamp  (a  species 


The  Maranas  159 

that  will  soon  be  extinct)  was  apt  to  greet  Diard  in  an 
ofFhand  fashion,  and  address  him  with  a  patronising, 
'  Well,  my  dear  fellow  !  '  when  they  met.  If  the 
generals  of  the  Empire  concealed  their  insolence  beneath 
an  assumption  of  a  soldier's  bluff  familiarity,  the  few 
people  of  fashion  whom  Diard  met  showed  him  the 
polite  and  well-bred  contempt  against  which  a  self-made 
man  is  nearly  always  powerless.  Diard's  behaviour  and 
speech,  like  his  half-Italian  accent,  his  dress,  and  every- 
thing about  him,  combined  to  lower  him  in  the  eyes  of 
ordinary  minds  ;  for  the  unwritten  code  of  good  manners 
and  good  taste  is  a  binding  tradition  that  only  the 
greatest  power  can  shake  off.  Such  is  the  way  of  the 
world. 

These  details  give  a  very  imperfect  idea  of  Juana's 
martyrdom.  The  pangs  were  endured  one  by  one.  Every 
social  species  contributed  its  pin-prick,  and  hers  was  a 
soul  that  would  have  welcomed  dagger-thrusts  in  pre- 
ference. It  was  intolerably  painful  to  watch  Diard 
receiving  insults  that  he  did  not  feel,  insults  that  Juana 
must  feel  though  they  were  not  meant  for  her.  A  final 
and  dreadful  illumination  came  at  last  for  her  j  it  cast  a 
light  upon  the  future,  and  she  knew  all  the  sorrows  that 
it  held  in  store.  She  had  seen  already  that  her  husband 
was  quite  incapable  of  mounting  to  the  highest  rungs  of 
the  social  ladder,  but  now  she  saw  the  inevitable  depths 
to  which  he  must  fall  when  he  should  lose  heart  ;  and 
then  a  feeling  of  pity  for  Diard  came  over  her. 

The  future  that  lay  before  her  was  very  dark,  Juana 
had  never  ceased  to  feel  an  overhanging  dread  of  some 
evil,  though  whence  it  should  come  she  knew  not. 
This  presentiment  haunted  her  inmost  soul,  as  contagion 
hovers  in  the  air  ;  but  she  was  able  to  hide  her  anguish 
with  smiles.  She  had  reached  the  point  when  she  no 
longer  thought  of  herself. 

Juana  used  her  influence  to  persuade  Diard  to  renounce 
his  social  ambitions,  pointing  out  to  him  as  a  refuge  the 


i6o  The  Maranas 

peaceful  and  gracious  life  of  the  domestic  hearth.  All 
their  troubles  came  from  without  j  why  should  they  not 
shut  out  the  world  ?  In  his  own  home  Diard  would 
find  peace  and  respect  ;  he  should  reign  there.  She  felt 
that  she  had  courage  enough  to  undertake  the  trying 
task  of  making  him  happy,  this  man  dissatisfied  with 
himself.  Her  energy  had  increased  with  the  difli- 
culties  of  her  fife  ;  she  had  within  her  the  heroic  spirit 
needed  by  a  woman  in  her  position,  and  felt  the  stirrings 
of  those  religious  aspirations  which  are  cherished  by  the 
guardian  angel  appointed  to  watch  over  a  Christian  soul, 
for  this  poetic  superstitious  fancy  is  an  allegory  that 
expresses  the  idea  of  the  two  natures  within  us. 

Diard  renounced  his  ambitions,  closed  his  house,  and 
literally  shut  himself  up  in  it,  if  it  is  allowable  to  make 
use  of  so  familiar  a  phrase.  But  therein  lay  the  danger. 
Diard  was  one  of  those  centrifugal  souls  who  must 
always  be  moving  about.  The  luckless  soldier's  turn  of 
mind  was  such  that  no  sooner  had  he  arrived  in  a  place 
than  this  restless  instinct  forthwith  drove  him  to  depart. 
Natures  of  this  kind  have  but  one  end  in  life  ;  they  must 
come  and  go  unceasingly  like  the  wheels  spoken  of  in 
the  Scriptures.  It  may  have  been  that  Diard  would  fain 
have  escaped  from  himself.  He  was  not  weary  of  Juanaj 
she  had  given  him  no  cause  to  blame  her,  but  with 
possession  his  passion  for  her  had  grown  less  absorbing, 
and  his  character  asserted  itself  again. 

Thenceforward  his  moments  of  despondency  came 
more  frequently  j  he  gave  way  more  often  to  his  quick 
southern  temper.  The  more  virtuous  and  irreproachable 
a  woman  is,  the  more  a  man  delights  to  find  her  in 
fault,  if  only  to  demonstrate  his  titular  superiority  ;  but 
if  by  chance  she  compels  his  respect,  he  must  needs 
fabricate  faults,  and  so  between  the  husband  and  wife 
nothings  are  exaggerated,  and  trifles  become  mountains. 
But  Juana's  meek  patience  and  gentleness,  untinged  with 
the    bitterness    that  women  can  infuse  into  their  sub- 


The  Maranas  i6i 

mission,  gave  no  handle  to  this  fault-finding  of  set 
purpose,  the  most  unkind  of  all.  Hers  was,  moreover, 
one  of  those  noble  natures  for  whom  it  is  impossible  to 
fail  in  duty  ;  her  pure  and  holy  life  shone  in  those  eyes 
with  the  martyr's  expression  in  them  that  haunted  the 
imagination.  Diard  first  grew  weary,  then  he  chafed, 
and  ended  by  finding  this  lofty  virtue  an  intolerable  yoke. 
His  wife's  discretion  left  him  no  room  for  violent  sensa- 
tions, and  he  craved  excitement.  Thousands  of  such 
dramas  lie  hidden  away  in  the  souls  of  men  and  women, 
beneath  the  uninteresting  surface  of  apparently  simple 
and  commonplace  lives.  It  is  difficult  to  choose  an 
example  from  among  the  many  scenes  that  last  for  so 
short  a  time,  and  leave  such  ineffaceable  traces  in  a  life; 
scenes  that  are  almost  always  precursors  of  the  calamity 
that  is  written  in  the  destiny  of  most  marriages.  Still 
one  scene  may  be  described,  because  it  sharply  marks  the 
first  beginnings  of  a  misunderstanding  between  these 
two,  and  may  in  some  degree  explain  the  catastrophe 
of  the  story. 

Juana  had  two  children  ;  luckily  for  her,  they  were 
both  boys.  The  oldest  was  born  seven  months  after  her 
marriage  ;  he  was  named  Juan,  and  was  like  his  mother. 
Two  years  after  they  came  to  Paris  her  second  son 
was  born  ;  he  resembled  Diard  and  Juana,  but  he  was 
more  like  Diard,  whose  names  he  bore.  Juana  had 
given  the  most  tender  care  to  little  Francisco.  For  the 
five  years  of  his  life,  his  mother  was  absorbed  in  this 
child  ;  he  had  more  than  his  share  of  kisses  and  caresses 
and  playthings  ;  and  besides  and  beyond  all  this,  his 
mother's  penetrating  eyes  watched  him  continually. 
Juana  studied  his  character  even  in  the  cradle,  noticing 
heedfuUy  his  cries  and  movements,  that  she  might  direct 
his  education.  Juana  seemed  to  have  but  that  one 
child.  The  Provençal,  seeing  that  Juan  was  almost 
neglected,  began  to  take  notice  of  the  older  boy.  He 
would  not  ask  himself  whether  the  little  one  was  the 


1 62  The  Maranas 

offspring  of  the  short-lived  love  affair  to  which  he  owed 
Juana,  and  by  a  piece  of  rare  flattery  made  of  Juan  his 
Benjamin.  Of  all  the  race  inheritance  of  passions  which 
preyed  upon  her,  Mme.  Diard  gave  way  but  to  one — a 
mother's  love  ;  she  loved  her  children  with  the  same 
vehemence  and  intensity  that  La  Marana  had  shown  for 
her  child  in  the  first  part  of  this  story  ;  but  to  this  love 
she  added  a  gracious  delicacy  of  feeling,  a  quick  and 
keen  comprehension  of  the  social  virtues  that  it  had  been 
her  pride  to  practise,  in  which  she  had  found  her  re- 
compense. The  secret  thought  of  the  conscientious  ful- 
filment of  the  duties  of  motherhood  had  been  a  crude 
element  of  poetry  that  left  its  impress  on  La  Marana's 
life  ;  but  Juana  could  be  a  mother  openly,  it  was  her  hourly 
consolation.  Her  own  mother  had  been  virtuous  as  other 
women  are  criminal,  by  stealth  ;  she  had  stolen  her  illicit 
happiness,  she  had  not  known  all  the  sweetness  of  secure 
possession.  But  Juana,  whose  life  of  virtue  was  as  dreary 
as  her  mother's  life  of  sin,  knew  every  hour  the  ineffable 
joys  for  which  that  mother  had  longed  in  vain.  For  her, 
as  for  La  Marana,  motherhood  summed  up  all  earthly 
affection,  and  both  the  Maranas  from  opposite  causes  had 
but  this  one  comfort  in  their  desolation.  Perhaps 
Juana's  love  was  the  stronger,  because,  shut  out  from  all 
other  love,  her  children  became  all  in  all  to  her,  and 
because  a  noble  passion  has  this  in  common  with  vice  : 
it  grows  by  what  it  feeds  upon.  The  mother  and  the 
gambler  are  aHke  insatiable. 

Juana  was  touched  by  the  generous  pardon  extended 
over  Juan's  head  by  Diard's  fatherly  affection,  and 
thenceforward  the  relations  between  husband  and  wife 
were  changed  ;  the  interest  which  Diard's  Spanish  wife 
had  taken  in  him  from  a  sense  of  duty  only,  became  a 
deep  and  sincere  feeHng.  Had  he  been  less  inconsequent 
in  his  life,  if  fickleness  and  spasmodic  changes  of  feeling 
on  his  part  had  not  quenched  that  flicker  of  timid  but 
real  sympathy,  Juana  must  surely  have  loved  him  ;  but. 


The  Maranas  163 

unluckily,  Diard's  character  belonged  to  the  quick-witted 
southern  type,  that  has  no  continuity  in  its  ideas  ;  such 
men  will  be  capable  of  heroic  actions  over  night,  and 
sink  into  nonentities  on  the  morrow  ;  often  they  are 
made  to  suffer  for  their  virtues,  often  their  worst  defects 
contribute  to  their  success  ;  and  for  the  rest,  they  are 
great  when  their  good  qualities  are  pressed  into  the 
service  of  an  unflagging  will.  For  two  years  Diard  had 
been  a  prisoner  in  his  home,  a  prisoner  bound  by  the 
sweetest  of  all  chains.  He  lived,  almost  against  his  will, 
beneath  the  influence  of  a  wife  who  kept  him  amused, 
and  was  always  bright  and  cheerful  for  him,  a  wife  who 
devoted  all  her  powers  of  coquetry  to  beguiling  him  into 
the  ways  of  virtue  ;  and  yet  all  her  ingenuity  could  not 
deceive  him,  and  he  knew  this  was  not  love. 

Just  about  that  time  a  murder  caused  a  great  sensation 
in  Paris.  A  captain  of  the  armies  of  the  Republic  had 
killed  a  woman  in  a  paroxysm  of  debauchery.  Diard 
told  the  story  to  Juana  when  he  came  home  to  dine. 
The  officer,  he  said,  had  taken  his  own  life  to  avoid  the 
ignominy  of  a  trial  and  the  infamous  death  of  a  criminal. 
At  first  Juana  could  not  understand  the  reason  for  his 
conduct,  and  her  husband  was  obliged  to  explain  to  her 
the  admirable  provision  of  the  French  law,  which  takes 
no  proceedings  against  the  dead. 

'  But,  papa,  didn't  you  tell  us  the  other  day  that  the 
King  can  pardon  anybody  ?  '  asked  Francisco. 

*  The  King  can  only  grant  lije^  said  Juan,  nettled. 

Diard  and  Juana  watched  this  little  scene  with  very 
diff^erent  feelings.  The  tears  of  happiness  in  Juana's 
eyes  as  she  glanced  at  her  oldest  boy  let  her  husband  see 
with  fatal  clearness  into  the  real  secrets  of  that  hitherto 
inscrutable  heart.  Her  older  boy  was  Juana's  own  child  ; 
Juana  knew  his  nature  ;  she  was  sure  of  him  and  of  his 
future  ;  she  worshipped  him,  and  her  great  love  was  a 
secret  known  only  to  her  child  and  to  God.  Juan,  in 
his  secret  heart,  gladly  endured  his  mother's  sharp  speeches. 


i64  The  Maranas 

What  if  she  seemed  to  frown  upon  him  in  the  presence 
of  his  father  and  brother,  when  she  showered  passionate 
kisses  upon  him  when  they  were  alone  ?  Francisco 
was  Diard's  child,  and  Juana's  care  meant  that  she  wished 
to  check  the  growth  of  his  father's  faults  in  him,  and  to 
develop  his  good  qualities. 

Juana,  unconscious  that  she  had  spoken  too  plainly  in 
that  glance,  took  little  Francisco  on  her  knee  ;  and,  her 
sweet  voice  faltering  somewhat  with  the  gladness  that 
Juan's  answer  had  caused  her,  gave  the  younger  boy  the 
teaching  suited  to  his  childish  mind. 

*  His  training  requires  great  care,'  the  father  said, 
speaking  to  Juana. 

'Yes,' she  answered  simply. 

*But7«fl«/' 

The  tone  in  which  the  two  words  were  uttered  startled 
Mme.  Diard.     She  looked  up  at  her  husband. 

*Juan  was  born  perfection,'  he  added,  and  having  thus 
delivered  himself,  he  sat  down,  and  looked  gloomily  at 
his  wife.  She  was  silent,  so  he  went  on,  '  You  love  one 
OÎ  your  children  more  than  the  other.' 

*  You  know  it  quite  well,'  she  said. 

*  No  !  '  returned  Diard.  '  Until  this  moment  I  did 
not  know  which  of  them  you  loved  the  most.' 

'  But  neither  of  them  has  as  yet  caused  ma  any 
sorrow,'  she  answered  quickly. 

*  No,  but  which  of  them  has  given  you  more  joys  i*  ' 
he  asked  still  more  quickly. 

'  I  have  not  kept  any  reckoning  of  them.' 

'  Women  are  very  deceitful  !  '  cried  Diard.     '  Do  you 

dare  to  tell   me  that  Juan  is  not   the   darling  of  your 

heart  ?  ' 

'  And  if  he  were,'  she  said,  with  gentle  dignity,  *  do 

you  mean  that  it  would  be  a  misfortune  ?  ' 

*  You  have  never  loved  me  !  If  you  had  chosen,  I 
might  have  won  kingdoms  for  you  with  my  sword. 
You  know  all  that  I  have  tried  to  do,  sustained  by  one 


Ttie   Maranas  165 

thought — a  longing  that  you  might  care  for  me.     Ah  ! 

if  you  had  but  loved  me ' 

'A  woman  who  loves,'  said  Juana,  'lives  in  solitude  far 
from  the  world.     Is  not  that  what  we  are  doing  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  I  know,  Juana,  that  you  are  never  in  the 
wrong.' 

The  words,  spoken  with  such  intense  bitterness, 
brought  about  a  coolness  between  them  that  lasted  the 
rest  of  their  lives. 

On  the  morrow  of  that  fatal  day,  Diard  sought  out 
one  of  his  old  cronies,  and  with  him  sought  distraction  at 
the  gaming-table.  Unluckily,  he  won  a  great  deal  ot 
money,  and  he  began  to  play  regularly.  Little  by  little 
he  slipped  back  into  his  old  dissipated  life.  After  a  short 
time  he  no  longer  dined  at  home.  A  few  months  were 
spent  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  first  pleasures  of  freedom  ; 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not  part  with  it,  left 
the  large  apartments  of  the  house  to  his  wife,  and  took 
up  his  abode  separately  on  the  entresol.  By  the  end  of 
the  year  Diard  and  Juana  only  met  once  a  day — at 
I  breakfast  time. 

In  a  few  words,  like  all  gamblers,  he  had  runs  of  good 
land   bad   luck;    but  as   he  was  reluctant  to  touch  his 
capital,  he  wished  to  have  entire  control  of  their  income, 
land  his  wife  accordingly  ceased  to  take  any  part  in  the 
Imanagement  of  the  household  economy.     Mistrust  had 
Isucceeded  to  the  boundless  confidence  that  he  had  once 
[placed  in  her.     As  to  money  matters,  which  had  formerly 
Ibeen  arranged  by  both  husband  and  wife,  he  adopted  the 
)lan  of  a  monthly  allowance  for  her  own  expenses  ;  they 
settled  the  amount  of  it  together  in  the  last  of  the  con- 
fidential talks  that  form  one  of  the  most  attractive  charms 
)f  marriage. 

The  barrier  of  silence  between  two  hearts  is  a  real 
livorce,  accomplished  on  the  day  when  husband  and  wife 
[ay  we  no  longer.  When  that  day  came,  Juana  knew 
Ihat  she  was  no  longer  a  wife,  but  a  mother  j  she  was 


1 66  The  Maranas 

not  unhappy,  and  did  not  seek  to  guess  the  reason  of  the 
misfortune.  It  was  a  great  pity.  Children  consolidate, 
as  it  were,  the  lives  of  their  parents,  and  the  life  that  her 
husband  led  apart  was  to  weave  sadness  and  anguish  for 
others  as  well  as  for  Juana.  Diard  lost  no  time  in  making 
use  of  his  newly  regained  liberty  ;  he  played  high,  and 
lost  and  won  enormous  sums.  He  was  a  good  and  bold 
player,  and  gained  a  great  reputation.  The  respect  which 
he  had  failed  to  win  in  society  in  the  days  of  the  Empire 
was  accorded  now  to  the  wealth  that  was  risked  upon  a 
green  table,  to  a  talent  for  all  and  any  of  the  games  of 
chance  of  that  period.  Ambassadors,  financiers,  men 
with  large  fortunes,  jaded  pleasure-seekers  in  quest  of 
excitement  and  extreme  sensations,  admired  Diard's  play 
at  their  clubs  ;  they  rarely  asked  him  to  their  houses,  but 
they  all  played  with  him.  Diard  became  the  fashion. 
Once  or  twice  during  the  winter  his  independent  spirit 
led  him  to  give  a  fête  to  return  the  courtesies  that  he 
had  received,  and  by  glimpses  Juana  saw  something  of 
society  again  ;  there  was  a  brief  return  of  balls  and 
banquets,  of  luxury  and  brilliantly-lighted  rooms;  but 
all  these  things  she  regarded  as  a  sort  of  duty  levied  upon 
her  happiness  and  solitude. 

The  queen  of  these  high  festivals  appeared  in  them 
like  some  creature  fallen  from  an  unknown  world.  Her 
simplicity  that  nothing  had  spoiled,  a  certain  maidenliness 
of  soul  with  which  the  changed  conditions  of  her  life  had 
invested  her,  her  beauty,  her  unaffected  modesty,  won 
sincere  admiration.  But  Juana  saw  few  women  among 
her  guests  ;  and  it  was  plain  to  her  mind  that  if  her 
husband  had  ordered  his  life  differently  without  taking 
her  into  his  confidence,  he  had  not  risen  in  the  esteem  of 
the  world. 

Diard  was  not  always  lucky.  In  three  years  he  had 
squandered  three-fourths  of  his  fortune  ;  but  he  drew 
from  his  passion  for  gambling  sufficient  energy  to  satisfy 
it.     He  had  a  large  circle  of  acquaintance,  and  was  hand 


The  Maranas  1 67 

and  glove  with  certain  swindlers  on  the  Stock  Exchange 
— gentry  who,  since  the  Revolution,  have  established  the 
principle  that  robbery  on  a  large  scale  is  a  mere  peccadillo^ 
transferring  to  the  language  of  the  counting-house  the 
brazen  epithets  of  the  license  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Diard  became  a  speculator,  engaged  in  the  peculiar 
kinds  of  business  described  as  '  shady  '  in  the  slang  of  the 
Palais.  He  managed  to  get  hold  of  poor  wretches 
ignorant  of  commercial  red-tape,  and  weary  of  everlasting 
proceedings  in  liquidation  ;  he  would  buy  up  their  claims 
on  the  debtor's  estate  for  a  small  sum,  arrange  the  matter 
with  the  assignees  in  the  course  of  an  evening,  and 
divide  the  spoil  with  the  latter.  When  liquéfiable  debts 
were  not  to  be  found,  he  looked  out  for  floating  debts  ; 
he  unearthed  and  revived  claims  in  abeyance  in  Europe 
and  America  and  uncivilised  countries.  When  at  the 
Restoration  the  debts  incurred  by  the  princes,  the 
Republic,  and  the  Empire  were  all  paid,  he  took  com- 
missions on  loans,  on  contracts  for  public  works  and 
[enterprises  of  all  kinds.  In  short,  he  committed  legal 
robbery,  like  many  another  carefully  masked  delinquent 
behind  the  scenes  in  the  theatre  of  politics.  Such  thefts, 
if  perpetrated  by  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  would  send 
I  the  luckless  offender  to  the  hulks  ;  but  there  is  a  virtue 
lin  the  glitter  of  chandeliers  and  gilded  ceilings  that 
labsolves  the  crimes  committed  beneath  them. 

Diard  forestalled  and  regrated  sugars  ;  he  sold  places  ; 
Ito    him    belongs   the    credit   of    the   invention   of    the 

jarmtng-pan  ;  he  installed  lay-figures  in  lucrative  posts 
that  must  be  held  for  a  time  to  secure  still  better  positions. 

'hen  he  fell  to  meditating  on  bounties  ;  he  studied  the 
|oop-holes  of  the  law,  and  carried  on  contraband  trades 
igainst  which  no  provision  had  been  made.  This  traffic 
In  high  places  may  be  briefly  described  as  a  sort  of  com- 

lission  agency  ;  he  received  '  so  much  per  cent.'  on  the 
)urchase  of  fifteen  votes  which  passed  in  a  single  night 
From  the  benches  on  the  left  to  the  benches  on  the  right 


1 68  The  Maranas 

of  the  legislative  chamber.  In  these  days  such  things  are 
neither  misdemeanours  nor  felony  ;  exploiting  industry, 
the  art  of  government,  financial  genius — these  are  the 
names  by  which  they  are  called. 

Public  opinion  put  Diard  in  the  pillory,  where  more 
than  one  clever  man  stood  already  to  keep  him  company  ; 
there,  indeed,  you  will  find  the  aristocracy  of  this  kind  of 
talent — the  Upper  Chamber  of  civilised  rascality. 

Diard,  therefore,  was  no  commonplace  gambler,  no 
vulgar  spendthrift  who  ends  his  career,  in  melodramas,  as 
a  beggar.  Above  a  certain  social  altitude  that  kind  of 
gambler  is  not  to  be  found.  In  these  days  a  bold 
scoundrel  of  this  kind  will  die  gloriously  in  the  harness 
of  vice  in  all  the  trappings  of  success  ;  he  will  blow  out 
his  brains  in  a  coach  and  six,  and  all  that  has  been  intrusted 
to  him  vanishes  with  him.  Diard's  talent  determined  him 
not  to  buy  remorse  too  cheaply,  and  he  joined  this  privileged 
class.  He  learned  all  the  springs  of  government,  made 
himself  acquainted  with  all  the  secrets  and  the  weak- 
nesses of  men  in  office,  and  held  his  own  in  the  fiery 
furnace  into  which  he  had  cast  himself. 

Mme.  Diard  knew  nothing  of  the  infernal  life  that  her 
husband  led.  She  was  well  content  to  be  neglected,  and 
did  not  ponder  overmuch  the  reasons  for  his  neglect. 
Her  time  was  too  well  filled.  She  devoted  all  the  money 
that  she  had  to  the  education  of  her  children  j  a  very 
clever  tutor  was  engaged  for  them,  besides  various 
masters.  She  meant  to  make  men  of  her  boys,  to  develop 
in  them  the  faculty  of  reasoning  clearly,  but  not  at  the 
expense  of  their  imaginative  powers.  Nothing  affected 
her  now  save  through  her  children,  and  her  own  colour- 
less life  depressed  her  no  longer.  Juan  and  Francisco 
were  for  her  what  children  are  for  a  time  for  many 
mothers — a  sort  of  expansion  of  her  own  existence.  Diard 
had  come  to  be  a  mere  accident  in  her  life.  Since  Diard 
had  ceased  to  be  a  father  and  the  head  of  the  family, 
nothing  bound  Juana  to  her  husband  any  longer,  save  a 


The  Maranas  169 

regard  for  appearances  demanded  by  social  conventions } 
yet  she  brought  up  her  children  to  respect  their  father, 
shadowy  and  unreal  as  that  fatherhood  had  become  ; 
indeed,  her  husband's  continual  absence  from  home 
helped  her  to  maintain  the  fiction  of  his  high  character. 
If  Diard  had  lived  in  the  house,  all  Juana's  efforts  must 
have  been  in  vain.  Her  children  were  too  quick  and 
bright  not  to  judge  their  father,  and  this  process  is  a 
moral  parricide. 

At  length,  however,  Juana's  indifference  changed  to  a 
feeUng  of  dread.  She  felt  that  sooner  or  later  her  hus- 
band's manner  of  life  must  affect  the  children's  future. 
Day  by  day  that  old  presentiment  of  coming  evil  gathered 
definiteness  and  strength.  On  the  rare  occasions  when 
Juana  saw  her  husband,  she  would  glance  at  his  hollow 
cheeks,  at  his  face  grown  haggard  with  the  vigils  he  kept, 
and  wrinkled  with  violent  emotions  ;  and  Diard  almost 
trembled  before  the  clear,  penetrating  eyes.  At  such 
times  her  husband's  assumed  gaiety  alarmed  her  even 
more  than  the  dark  look  that  his  face  wore  in  repose, 
when  for  a  moment  he  happened  to  forget  the  part  that 
he  was  playing.  He  feared  his  wife  as  the  criminal 
fears  the  headsman.  Juana  saw  in  him  a  disgrace  on  her 
children's  name  ;  and  Diard  dreaded  her,  she  was  like 
some  passionless  Vengeance,  a  Justice  with  unchanging 
brows,  with  the  arm  that  should  one  day  strike  always 
suspended  above  him. 

One  day,  about  fifteen  years  after  his  marriage,  Diard 
found  himself  without  resources.  He  owed  a  hundred 
thousand  crowns,  and  was  possessed  of  a  bare  hundred 
thousand  francs.  His  mansion  (all  that  he  possessed 
beside  ready  money)  was  mortgaged  beyond  its  value. 
A  few  more  days,  and  the  prestige  of  enormous  wealth 
[must  fade  j  and  when  those  days  of  grace  had  expired, 
o  helping  hand  would  be  stretched  out,  no  purse  would 
e  open  for  him.  Nothing  but  unlooked-for  luck  could 
ave  him  now  from  the  slough  into  which  he  must  fall  ; 


170  The  Maranas 

and  he  would  but  sink  the  deeper  in  it,  men  would  scorn 
him  the  more  because  for  a  while  they  had  estimated  him 
at  more  than  his  just  value. 

Very  opportunely,  therefore,  he  learned  that  with  the 
beginning  of  the  season  diplomatists  and  foreigners  of 
distinction  flocked  to  watering-places  in  the  Pyrenees, 
that  play  ran  high  at  these  resorts,  and  that  the  visitors 
were  doubtless  well  able  to  pay  their  losings.  So  he 
determined  to  set  out  at  once  for  the  Pyrenees.  He  had 
no  mind  to  leave  his  wife  in  Paris  ;  some  of  his  creditors 
might  enlighten  her  as  to  his  awkward  position,  and  he 
wished  to  keep  it  secret,  so  he  took  Juana  and  the  two 
children.  He  would  not  allow  the  tutor  to  go  with 
them,  and  made  some  difficulties  about  Juana's  maid, 
who,  with  a  single  man-servant,  composed  their  travel- 
ling suite.  His  tone  was  curt  and  peremptory  ;  his  energy 
seemed  to  have  returned  to  him.  This  hasty  journey 
sent  a  shiver  of  dread  to  Juana's  soul  ;  her  penetration  was 
at  fault,  she  could  not  imagine  the  why  and  wherefore  of 
their  leaving  Paris.  Her  husband  seemed  to  be  in  high 
spirits  on  the  way  ;  and  during  the  time  spent  together 
perforce  in  the  travelling  carriage,  he  took  more  and 
more  notice  of  the  children,  and  was  more  kindly  to  the 
children's  mother.  And  yet — every  day  brought  new 
and  dark  forebodings  for  Juana,  the  forebodings  of  a 
mother's  heart  These  inward  warnings,  even  when 
there  is  no  apparent  reason  for  them,  are  seldom  vain, 
and  the  veil  that  hides  the  future  grows  thin  for  a  mother's 
eyes. 

Diard  took  a  house,  not  large,  but  very  nicely  furnished, 
situated  in  one  of  the  quietest  parts  of  Bordeaux.  It 
happened  to  be  a  corner  house  with  a  large  garden, 
surrounded  on  three  sides  by  streets,  and  on  the  fourth  by 
the  wall  of  a  neighbouring  dwelling.  Diard  paid  the 
rent  in  advance,  and  installed  his  wife  and  family,  leaving 
Juana  fifty  louis,  a  sum  barely  sufficient  to  meet  the 
housekeeping  expenses  for  three  months.     Mme.  Diard 


The  Maranas  171 

made  no  comment  on  this  unwonted  niggardliness. 
When  her  husband  told  her  that  he  was  about  to  go  to 
the  Baths,  and  that  she  was  to  remain  in  Bordeaux,  she 
made  up  her  mind  that  the  children  should  learn  the 
Spanish  and  Italian  languages  thoroughly,  and  that  they 
should  read  with  her  the  great  masterpieces  of  either 
tongue. 

With  this  object  in  view,  Juana's  Kfe  should  be 
retired  and  simple,  and  in  consequence  her  expenses 
would  be  few.  Her  own  woman  waited  upon  them  ; 
and,  to  simplify  the  housekeeping,  she  arranged  on  the 
morrow  of  Diard's  departure  to  have  their  meals  sent  in 
from  a  restaurant.  Everything  was  provided  for  until 
her  husband's  return,  and  she  had  no  money  left.  Her 
amusements  must  consist  in  occasional  walks  with  the 
children.  She  was  now  a  woman  of  thirty-three  ;  her 
beauty  had  developed  to  its  fullest  extent,  she  was  in  the 
full  splendour  of  her  maturity.  Scarcely  had  she  appeared 
in  Bordeaux  before  people  talked  of  nothing  but  the 
lovely  Spanish  lady.  She  received  a  first  love-letter,  and 
thenceforth  confined  her  walks  to  her  own  garden. 

At  first  Diard  had  a  run  of  luck  at  the  Baths.  He 
won  three  hundred  thousand  francs  in  two  months  ;  but 
it  never  occurred  to  him  to  send  any  money  to  his  wife, 
he  meant  to  keep  as  large  a  sum  as  possible  by  him,  and 
to  play  for  yet  higher  stakes.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
last  month  a  Marchese  di  Montefiore  came  to  the  Baths, 
preceded  by  a  reputation  for  a  fine  figure,  and  great 
wealth,  for  the  match  that  he  had  made  with  an  English 
lady  of  family,  and  most  of  all  for  a  passion  for  gaming. 
Diard  waited  for  his  old  comrade  in  arms,  to  add  the  spoils 
to  his  winnings.  A  gambler  with  something  like  four 
hundred  thousand  francs  at  his  back  can  command  most 
things  ;  Diard  felt  confident  in  his  luck,  and  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  Montefiore.  That  gentleman 
received  him  coldly,  but  they  played  together,  and  Diard 
lost  everything. 


17*  The  Maranas 

*  Montefiore,  my  dear  fellow,'  said  the  sometime 
quartermaster,  after  a  turn  round  the  room  in  which 
he  had  ruined  himself,  '  I  owe  you  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  ;  but  I  have  left  my  money  at  Bordeaux,  where 
my  wife  is  staying.' 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Diard  had  notes  for  the  amount  in 
his  pockets  at  that  moment,  but,  with  the  self-possession 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  take  in  all  the  possibilities  of  a 
situation  at  a  glance,  he  still  hoped  something  from  the 
incalculable  chances  of  the  gaming-table.  Montefiore 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  see  something  of  Bordeaux  ; 
and  if  Diard  were  to  settle  at  once  with  him,  he  would 
have  nothing  left,  and  could  not  have  his  '  revenge.'  A 
'revenge'  will  sometimes  more  than  make  good  all 
previous  losses.  All  these  burning  hopes  depended  on 
the  answer  that  the  Marquis  might  give. 

*  Let  it  stand,  my  dear  fellow,'  said  Montefiore  ;  *  we 
will  go  to  Bordeaux  together.  I  am  rich  enough  now 
in  all  conscience  j  why  should  I  take  an  old  comrade's 


money 


Three  days  later,  Diard  and  the  Italian  were  at  Bor- 
deaux. Montefiore  oiFered  the  Provençal  his  revenge. 
In  the  course  of  an  evening,  which  Diard  began  by 
paying  down  the  hundred  thousand  francs,  he  lost  two 
hundred  thousand  more  upon  parole.  He  was  as  light- 
hearted  over  his  losses  as  if  he  could  swim  in  gold.  It 
was  eleven  o'clock,  and  a  glorious  night,  surely  Monte- 
fiore must  wish  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  under  the  open 
sky,  and  to  take  a  walk  to  cool  down  a  little  after  the 
excitement  of  play }  Diard  suggested  that  the  Italian 
should  accompany  him  to  his  house  and  take  a  cup  of  tea 
there  when  the  money  was  paid  over. 

*  But  Mme.  Diard  !  '  queried  Montefiore. 

*  Pshaw  !  '  answered  the  Provençal. 

They  went  downstairs  together;  hut  before  leaving 
the  house,  Diard  went  into  the  dining-room,  asked  for  a 
glass  of  water,  and  walked  about  the  room  as  he  waited 


The  Maranas  173 

for  it.  In  thîs  way  he  managed  to  secrete  a  tiny  steel 
knife  with  a  handle  of  mother-of-pearl,  such  as  is  used 
at  dessert  for  fruit  ;  the  thing  had  not  yet  been  put  away 
in  its  place. 

*  Where  do  you  live  ?  '  asked  Montefiore,  as  they 
crossed  the  court  ;  *  I  must  leave  word,  so  as  to  have  the 
carriage  sent  round  for  me.' 

Diard  gave  minute  directions. 

*  Of  course,  I  am  perfectly  safe  as  long  as  I  am  with 
you,  you  see,'  said  Montefiore  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  took 
Diard's  arm  ;  *  but  if  I  came  back  by  myself,  and  some 
scamp  were  to  follow  me,  I  should  be  worth  killing.' 

*  Then  have  you  money  about  you  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  next  to  nothing,'  said  the  cautious  Italian, 
'only  my  winnings.  But  they  would  make  a  pretty 
fortune  for  a  penniless  rascal  ;  he  might  take  brevet  rank 
as  an  honest  man  afterwards  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  that 
I  know.' 

Diard  took  the  Italian  into  a  deserted  street.  He  had 
noticed  the  gateway  of  a  single  house  in  it  at  the  end 
of  a  sort  of  avenue  of  trees,  and  that  there  were  high 
dark  walls  on  either  side.  Just  as  they  reached  the  end 
of  this  road  he  had  the  audacity  to  ask  his  friend,  in 
soldierly  fashion,  to  walk  on.  Montefiore  understood 
Diard's  meaning,  and  turned  to  go  with  him.  Scarcely 
had  they  set  foot  in  the  shadow,  when  Diard  sprang  like 
a  tiger  upon  the  Marquis,  tripped  him  up,  boldly  set 
his  foot  on  his  victim's  throat,  and  plunged  the  knife 
again  and  again  into  his  heart,  till  the  blade  snapped  oft' 
short  in  his  body.  Then  he  searched  Montefiore,  took 
his  money,  his  pocket-book,  and  everything  that  the 
Marquis  had. 

But  though  Diard  had  set  about  his  work  in  a  frenzy 
that  left  him  perfectly  clear-headed,  and  completed  it 
with  the  deftness  of  a  pickpocket  ;  though  he  had 
taken  his  victim  adroitly  by  surprise,  Montefiore  had 
had  time  to  shriek  '  Murder  !  '  once  or  twice,  a  shrill,  far- 


174  The  Maranas 

reaching  cry  that  must  have  sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through 
many  sleepers,  and  his  dying  groans  were  fearful  to 
hear. 

Diard  did  not  know  that  even  as  they  turned  into 
the  avenue  a  crowd  of  people  returning  home  from  the 
theatre  had  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  street.  They 
had  heard  Montefiore's  dying  cries,  though  the  Provençal 
had  tried  to  stifle  the  sounds,  never  relaxing  the  pressure 
of  his  foot  upon  the  murdered  man's  throat,  until  at  last 
they  ceased. 

The  high  walls  still  echoed  with  dying  groans  which 
guided  the  crowd  to  the  spot  whence  they  came.  The 
sound  of  many  feet  filled  the  avenue  and  rang  through 
Diard's  brain.  The  murderer  did  not  lose  his  head  j  he 
came  out  from  under  the  trees,  and  walked  very  quietly 
along  the  street,  as  if  he  had  been  drawn  thither  by 
curiosity,  and  saw  that  he  had  come  too  late  to  be  of 
any  use.  He  even  turned  to  make  sure  of  the  distance 
that  separated  him  from  the  new-comers,  and  saw  them 
all  rush  into  the  avenue,  save  one  man,  who  not  unnatur- 
ally stood  still  to  watch  Diard's  movements. 

*  There  he  lies  !  There  he  lies  !  '  shouted  voices  from 
the  avenue.  They  had  caught  sight  of  Montefiore's 
dead  body  in  front  of  the  great  house.  The  gateway 
was  shut  fast,  and  after  diligent  search  they  could  not 
find  the  murderer  in  the  alley. 

As  soon  as  he  heard  the  shout,  Diard  knew  that  he 
had  got  the  start  ;  he  seemed  to  have  the  strength  of  a 
lion  in  him  and  the  fleetness  of  a  stag  ;  he  began  to  run, 
nay,  he  flew.  He  saw,  or  fancied  that  he  saw,  a  second 
crowd  at  the  other  end  of  the  road,  and  darted  down 
a  side  street.  But  even  as  he  fled,  windows  were  opened, 
and  rows  of  heads  were  thrust  out,  lights  and  shouting 
issued  from  every  door  ;  to  Diard,  running  for  dear 
life,  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  rushing  through  a  tumult  l 
of  cries  and  swaying  lights.  Ashe  fled  straight  along 
the  road  before  him,  his  legs  stood  him  in  such  good 


The  Maranas  1 75 

stead  that  he  left  the  crowd  behind  ;  but  he  could  not 
keep  out  of  sight  of  the  windows,  nor  avoid  the  watchful 
eyes  that  traversed  the  length  and  breadth  of  a  street 
faster  than  he  could  fly. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  soldiers,  gendarmes,  and 
householders  were  all  astir.  Some  in  their  zeal  had 
gone  to  wake  up  Commissaries  of  Police,  others  stood 
by  the  dead  body.  The  alarm  spread  out  into  the 
suburbs  in  the  direction  of  the  fugitive  (whom  it  followed 
like  a  conflagration  from  street  to  street)  and  into  the 
heart  of  the  town,  where  it  reached  the  authorities. 
Diard  heard  as  in  a  dream  the  hurrying  feet,  the  yells  of 
a  whole  horror-stricken  city.  But  his  ideas  were  still 
clear  ;  he  still  preserved  his  presence  of  mind,  and  he 
rubbed  his  hands  against  the  walls  as  he  ran. 

At  last  he  reached  the  garden  wall  of  his  own  house. 
He  thought  that  he  had  thrown  his  pursuers  ofi^  the 
scent.  The  place  was  perfectly  silent  save  for  the 
far-off^  murmur  of  the  city,  scarcely  louder  there  than  the 
sound  of  the  sea.  He  dipped  his  hands  into  a  runnel  of 
clear  water  and  drank.  Then,  looking  about  him,  he 
saw  a  heap  of  loose  stones  by  the  roadside,  and  hastened 
to  bury  his  spoils  beneath  it,  acting  on  some  dim  notion 
such  as  crosses  a  criminal's  mind  when  he  has  not  yet 
found  a  consistent  tale  to  account  for  his  actions,  and 
hopes  to  establish  his  innocence  by  lack  of  proofs  against 
him.  When  this  was  accomplished,  he  tried  to  look 
serene  and  calm,  forced  a  smile,  and  knocked  gently  at 
his  own  door,  hoping  that  no  one  had  seen  him.  He 
looked  up  at  the  house  front  and  saw  a  light  in  his  wife's 
windows.  And  then  in  his  agitation  of  spirit  visions  of 
Juana's  peaceful  life  rose  before  him  j  he  saw  her  sitting 
there  in  the  candlelight  with  her  children  on  either 
side  of  her,  and  the  vision  smote  his  brain  like  a  blow 
from  a  hammer.  The  waiting-woman  opened  the  door, 
Diard  entered,  and  hastily  shut  it  to  again.  He  dared 
to   breathe  more    freely,   but    he    remembered    that    he 


176  The  Maranas 

was  covered  with  perspiration,  and  sent  the  maid  up  to 
Juana,  while  he  stayed  below  in  the  darkness.  He  wiped 
his  face  with  a  handicerchief  and  set  his  clothes  in  order,  as 
a  coxcomb  smooths  his  coat  before  calling  upon  a  pretty 
woman  ;  then  for  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  moonlight 
examining  his  hands  ;  he  passed  them  over  his  face, 
and  with  unspeakable  joy  found  that  there  was  no  trace 
of  blood  upon  him,  doubtless  his  victim's  wounds  had 
bled  internally. 

He  went  up  to  Juana's  room,  and  his  manner  was  as 
quiet  and  composed  as  if  he  had  come  home  after  the 
theatre,  to  sleep.  As  he  climbed  the  stairs,  he  could 
think  over  his  position,  and  summed  it  up  in  a  phrase — 
he  must  leave  the  house  and  reach  the  harbour.  These 
ideas  did  not  cross  his  brain  in  words  ;  he  saw  them 
written  in  letters  of  fire  upon  the  darkness.  Once  down 
at  the  harbour,  he  could  lie  in  hiding  during  the  day, 
and  return  at  night  for  his  treasure  ;  then  he  would 
creep  with  it  like  a  rat  into  the  hold  of  some  vessel,  and 
leave  the  port,  no  one  suspecting  that  he  was  on  board. 
For  all  these  things  money  was  wanted  in  the  first 
place.  And  he  had  nothing.  The  waiting-woman 
came  with  a  light. 

'  Felicie,'  he  said,  *  do  you  not  hear  that  noise  ?  people 
are  shouting  in  the  street.  Go  and  find  out  what  it  is 
and  let  me  know •' 

His  wife  in  her  white  dressing-gown  was  sitting  at 
a  table,  reading  Cervantes  in  Spanish  with  Francisco  and 
Juan  ;  the  two  children's  eyes  followed  the  text  while 
their  mother  read  aloud.  All  three  of  them  stopped  and 
looked  up  at  Diard,  who  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  surprised  perhaps  by  the  surroundings,  the  peace- 
ful scene,  the  fair  faces  of  the  woman  and  the  children 
in  the  softly  lit  room.  It  was  like  a  living  picture  of  a 
Madonna  with  her  son  and  the  little  Saint  John  on  either 
side. 

*  Juana,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.' 


The  Maranas  177 

*  What  is  it  ?  '  she  asked.  In  her  husband's  wan  and 
sallow  face  she  read  the  news  of  this  calamity  that  she 
had  expected  daily  ;  it  had  come  at  last. 

Nothing,  but  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you — to  you, 
quite  alone,'  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  two  little  boys. 

'  Go  to  your  room,  my  darlings,  and  go  to  bed,'  said 
Juana.     '  Say  your  prayers  without  me.' 

The  two  boys  went  away  in  silence,  with  the  unin- 
quisitive  obedience  of  children  who  have  been  well 
brought  up. 

'Dear  Juana,'  Diard  began  in  coaxing  tones,  *I  left 
you  very  little  money,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it  now 
Listen,  since  I  relieved  you  of  the  cares  of  your  house- 
hold by  giving  you  an  allowance,  perhaps  you  may  have 
saved  a  little  money,  as  all  women  do  ?  ' 

'  No,'  answered  Juana,  *  I  have  nothing.  You  did  not 
allow  anything  for  the  expenses  of  the  children's  educa- 
tion. I  am  not  reproaching  you  at  all,  dear  ;  I  only 
remind  you  that  you  forgot  about  it,  to  explain  how  it 
is  that  I  have  no  money.  All  that  you  gave  me  I 
spent  on  lessons  and  masters ' 

'  That  will  do  !  '  Diard  broke  in.  *  Sacré  tonnerre  ! 
time  is  precious.     Have  you  no  jewels  ?  ' 

*  You  know  quite  well  that  I  never  wear  them.' 

*  Then  there  is  not  a  sou  in  the  house  !  '  cried  Diard, 
like  a  man  bereft  of  his  senses. 

'  Why  do  you  cry  out  ?  '  she  asked. 
'Juana,'  he  began,  '  I  have  just  killed  a  man  !* 
Juana   rushed   to  the  children's   room,  and   returned, 
^hutting  all  the  doors  after  her. 

'  Your  sons  must  not  hear  a  word  of  this,'  she  said  ; 
but  whom  can  you  have  fought  with  ?  ' 
Montefiore,'  he  answered. 

*  Ah  !  '  she  said,  and  a  sigh  broke  from  her  ;  *  he  is  the 
|)ne  man  whom  you  had  a  right  to  kill ' 

'  There  were  plenty  of  reasons  why  he  should  die  by 
ly  hand.      But  let  us  lose  no  time.      Money,  I  want 
M 


lyS  The  Maranas 

money,  in  God's  name  !     They  may  be  on  my  track. 

We  did  not  fight,  Juana,  I — I  killed  him.' 

'  Killed  him  !  '  she  cried.     'But  how ?  ' 

'  Why,  how  does  one  kill  a  man  ?     He  had  robbed  me 

of  all  I  had  at  play  ;  and  I  have  taken  it  back  again. 

Juana,  since  we  have  no  money,  you  might    go    now, 

while  everything  is  quiet,  and  look  for  my  money  under 

the  heap  of  stones  at  the  end  of  the  road  ;  you  know  the 

place.' 

'  Then,'  said  Juana,  *  you  have  robbed  him.' 

*  What  business  is  it  of  yours  ?  Fly  I  must,  mustn't 
I  ?  Have  you  any  money  ?  .  .  .  They  are  after 
me  !' 

*  Who  ?  ' 

'  The  authorities.* 

Juana  left  the  room,  and  came  back  suddenly. 

*  Here,'  she  cried,  holding  out  a  trinket,  but  standing 
at  a  distance  from  him  ;  *  this  is  Dofia  Lagounia's  cross. 
There   are   four  rubies  in  it,  and  the  stones   are  very 

valuable  j  so  I  have  been  told.     Be  quick,  fly,  fly 

why  don't  you  go  ?  ' 

*  Félicie  has  not  come  back,*  he  said,  in  dull  amazement. 
'  Can  they  have  arrested  her  ?  ' 

Juana  dropped  the  cross  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
sprang  towards  the  windows  that  looked  out  upon  the 
street.  Outside  in  the  moonlight  she  saw  a  row  of 
soldiers  taking  their  places  in  absolute  silence  along  the 
walls.  She  came  back  again  j  to  all  appearance  she  was 
perfectly  calm. 

'  You  have  not  a  minute  to  lose,'  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band ;  '  you  must  escape  through  the  garden.  Here  is 
the  key  of  the  little  door.' 

A  last  counsel  of  prudence  led  her,  however,  to  give 
a  glance  over  the  garden.  In  the  shadows  under  the 
trees  she  saw  the  silvery  gleam  of  the  metal  rims  of  the 
gendarmes'  caps.  She  even  heard  a  vague  murmur  of 
a  not  far-distant  crowd  ;  sentinels  were  keeping  back  the 


The  Maranas  179 

people  gathered  together  by  curiosity  at  the  further  ends 
of  the  streets  by  which  the  house  was  approached. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Diard  had  been  seen  from  the 
windows  of  the  houses  j  the  maid-servant  had  been 
frightened,  and  afterwards  arrested  j  and,  acting  on  this 
information,  the  military  and  the  crowd  had  soon  blocked 
the  ends  of  the  streets  that  lay  on  two  sides  of  the  house. 
A  dozen  gendarmes,  coming  off  duty  at  the  theatres,  were 
posted  outside  ;  others  had  climbed  the  wall,  and  were 
searching  the  garden,  a  proceeding  authorised  by  the 
serious  nature  of  the  crime. 

*  Monsieur,'  said  Juana,  'it  is  too  late.  The  whole 
town  is  aroused.' 

Diard  rushed  from  window  to  window  with  the  wild 
recklessness  of  a  bird  that  dashes  frantically  against  every 
pane.     Juana  stood  absorbed  in  her  thoughts. 

*  Where  can  I  hide  ?  '  he  asked. 

He  looked  at  the  chimney,  and  Juana  stared  at  the 
two  empty  chairs.  To  her  it  seemed  only  a  moment 
since  her  children  were  sitting  there.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  gate  opened,  and  the  courtyard  echoed  with 
the  sound  of  many  footsteps. 

*  Juana,  dear  Juana,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me  what 
to  do.' 

'  I  will  tell  you,'  she  said  ;  '  I  will  save  you.' 

*  Ah  !  you  will  be  my  good  angel  !  ' 

Again  Juana  returned  with  one  of  Diard's  pistols  ; 
she  held  it  out  to  him,  and  turned  her  head  away.  Diard 
did  not  take  it.  Juana  heard  sounds  from  the  courtyard  j 
they  had  brought  in  the  dead  body  of  the  Marquis  to 
confront  the  murderer.  She  came  away  from  the  window 
and  looked  at  Diard  ;  he  was  white  and  haggard  ;  his 
strength  failed  him  ;  he  made  as  if  he  would  sink  into  a 
chair. 

*  For  your  children's  sake,'  she  said,  thrusting  the 
weapon  into  his  hands. 

'  But,  my  dear  Juana,  my  little  Juana,  do  you  realljr 


i8o  The  Maranas 

believe  that  ...  ?  Juana,  is  there  such  need  of  haste  ?  .  .  . 
I  would  like  to  kiss  you  before  .  .  ,' 

The  gendarmes  were  on  the  stairs.  Then  Juana  took 
up  the  pistol,  held  it  at  Diard's  head  ;  with  a  firm  grasp 
on  his  throat  she  held  him  tightly  in  spite  of  his  cries, 
fired,  and  let  the  weapon  fall  to  the  ground. 

The  door  was  suddenly  flung  open  at  that  moment. 
The  public  prosecutor,  followed  by  a  magistrate  and  his 
clerk,  a  doctor,  and  the  gendarmes,  all  the  instruments  of 
man's  justice,  appeared  upon  the  scene. 

'  What  do  you  want  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  Is  that  M.  Diard  î  '  answered  the  public  prosecutor, 
pointing  to  the  body  lying  bent  double  upon  the  floor. 

*  Yes,  monsieur.' 

'  Your  dress  is  covered  with  blood,  madame ' 

'  Do  you  not  understand  how  it  is  ?  '  asked  Juana. 
She  went  over  to  the  little  table  and  sat  down  there, 
and  took  up  the  volume  of  Cervantes  ;    her  face  was 
colourless  ;  she  strove    to   control   her   inward   nervous 
agitation. 

*  Leave  the  room,'  said  the  public  prosecutor  to  the 
gendarmes.  He  made  a  sign  to  the  magistrate  and  the 
doctor,  and  they  remained. 

*  Madame,  under  the  circumstances,  we  can  only  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  husband's  death.  If  he  was 
carried  away  by  passion,  at  any  rate  he  has  died  like 
a  soldier,  and  it  is  vain  for  justice  to  pursue  him  now. 
Yet  little  as  we  may  desire  to  intrude  upon  you  at  such 
a  time,  the  law  obliges  us  to  inquire  into  a  death  by 
violence.     Permit  us  to  do  our  duty,' 

*  May  I  change  my  dress  ?  '  she  asked,  laying  down 
ihe  volume. 

'  Yes,  madame,  but  you  must  bring  it  here.  The 
doctor  will  doubtless  require  it ' 

*  It  would  be  too  painful  to  Mme.  Diard  to  be  present 
while  I  go  through  my  task,'  said  the  doctor,  under- 
standing the  public  prosecutor's  suspicions.     *  Will  you 


The  Maranas  981 

permit  her,  gentlemen,  to  remain  in  the  adjoining 
room  ?  ' 

The  two  functionaries  approved  the  kindly  doctor's 
suggestion,  and  Félicie  went  to  her  mistress.  Then  the 
magistrate  and  the  public  prosecutor  spoke  together  for 
a  while  in  a  low  voice.  It  is  the  unhappy  lot  of  adminis- 
trators of  justice  to  be  in  duty  bound  to  suspect  every- 
body and  everything.  By  dint  of  imagining  evil  motives, 
and  every  possible  combination  that  they  may  bring 
about,  so  as  to  discover  the  truth  that  lurks  beneath  the 
most  inconsistent  actions,  it  is  impossible  but  that  their 
dreadful  office  should  in  course  of  time  dry  up  the  source 
of  the  generous  impulses  to  which  they  may  never  yield. 
If  the  sensibilities  of  the  surgeon  who  explores  the 
mysteries  of  the  body  are  blunted  by  degrees,  what 
becomes  of  the  inner  sensibility  of  the  judge  who  is 
compelled  to  probe  the  intricate  recesses  of  the  human 
conscience  ?  Magistrates  are  the  first  victims  of  their 
profession  ;  their  progress  is  one  perpetual  mourning  for 
their  lost  illusions,  and  the  crimes  that  hang  so  heavily 
about  the  necks  of  criminals  weigh  no  less  upon  their 
judges.  An  old  man  seated  in  the  tribunal  of  justice  is 
sublime  ;  but  do  we  not  shudder  to  see  a  young  face 
there  ?  In  this  case  the  magistrate  was  a  young  man, 
and  it  was  his  duty  to  say  to  the  public  prosecutor, 
'  Was  the  woman  her  husband's  accomplice,  do  you 
think  ?  Must  we  take  proceedings  ?  Ought  she,  in 
your  opinion,  to  be  examined  ?  ' 

By  way  of  reply,  the  public  prosecutor  shrugged  his 
shoulders  ;  apparently  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference. 

*  Montefiore  and  Diard,'  he  remarked,  '  were  a  pair 
of  notorious  scamps.  The  servant-girl  knew  nothing 
about  the  crime.     We  need  not  go  any  further.' 

The  doctor  was  making  his  examination  of  Diard's 
body,  and  dictating  his  report  to  the  clerk.  Suddenly 
he  rushed  into  Juana's  room. 

*  Madame ' 


1 8a  The  Maranas 

Juana,  who  had  changed  her  blood-stained  dress,  con- 
fronted the  doctor. 

*  You  shot  your  husband,  did  you  not  ?  '  he  asked, 
bending  to  say  the  words  in  her  ear. 

*  Yes,  monsieur,'  the  Spaniard  answered. 

*  t^nd  from  circumstantial  evidence  '  (the  doctor  went 
on  dictating)  '  we  conclude  that  the  said  Diard  has  taken 
his  life  by  his  own  act. — Have  you  finished  ?  '  he  asked 
the  clerk  after  a  pause. 

*  Yes,'  answered  the  scribe. 

The  doctor  put  his  signature  to  the  document.  Juana 
glanced  at  him,  and  could  scarcely  keep  back  the  tears 
that,  for  a  moment,  filled  her  eyes. 

*  Gentlemen,'  she  said,  and  she  turned  to  the  public 
prosecutor,  '  I  am  a  stranger,  a  Spaniard.  I  do  not 
know  the  law.  I  know  no  one  in  Bordeaux.  I  entreat 
you  to  do  me  this  kindness,  will  you  procure  me  a 
passport  for  Spain  ?  ' 

*  One  moment  !'  exclaimed  the  magistrate.  *  Madame, 
what  has  become  of  the  sum  of  money  that  was  stolen 
from  the  Marquis  di  Montefiore  ?  ' 

*M.  Diard  said  something  about  a  heap  of  stones 
beneath  which  he  had  hidden  it,'  she  answered. 

*  Where  ?  ' 

*  In  the  street.* 

The  two  functionaries  exchanged  glances.  Juana's 
involuntary  start  was  sublime.  She  appealed  to  the 
doctor. 

'  Can  they  suspect  me  ?  '  she  said  in  his  ear  ;  *  suspect 
me  of  some  villainy  ?  The  heap  of  stones  is  sure  to  be 
somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Go  yourself,  I  beg 
of  you,  and  look  for  it  and  find  the  money. 

The  doctor  went,  accompanied  by  the  magistrate,  and 
found  Montefiore's  pocket-book. 

Two  days  later  Juana  sold  her  golden  cross  to  meet 
the  expenses  of  the  journey.  As  she  went  with  her  two 
children  to  the  diligence  in  which  they  were  about  to 


The  Mar  anas  183 

travel  to  the  Spanish  frontier,  some  one  called  her  name 
in  the  street.  It  was  her  dying  mother,  who  was  being 
taken  to  the  hospital  ;  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
daughter  through  a  slit  in  the  curtains  of  the  stretcher 
on  which  she  lay.  Juana  bade  them  carry  the  stretcher 
into  a  gateway,  and  there  for  the  last  time  the  mother 
and  daughter  met.  Low  as  their  voices  were  while  they 
spoke  together,  Juan  overheard  these  words  of  farewell — 
*  Mother,  die  in  peace  i  I  have  suffered  for  you  all.' 

Pasis,  Novembtr  1 8^2, 


EL    VER  D  V  GO 

To  Martinex  de  la  Rosa 

Midnight  had  just  sounded  from  the  belfry  tower  of 
the  little  town  of  Menda.  A  young  French  officer, 
leaning  over  the  parapet  of  the  long  terrace  at  the  further 
end  of  the  castle  gardens,  seemed  to  be  unusually 
absorbed  in  deep  thought  for  one  who  led  the  reckless 
life  of  a  soldier  ;  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  never  was 
the  hour,  the  scene,  and  the  night  more  favourable  to 
meditation. 

The  blue  dome  of  the  cloudless  sky  of  Spain  was  over- 
head; he  was  looking  out  over  the  coy  windings  of  a 
lovely  valley  lit  by  the  uncertain  starlight  and  the  soft 
radiance  of  the  moon.  The  officer,  leaning  against  an 
orange  tree  in  blossom,  could  also  see,  a  hundred  feet 
below  him,  the  town  of  Menda,  which  seemed  to  nestle 
for  shelter  from  the  north  wind  at  the  foot  of  the  crags 
on  which  the  castle  itself  was  built.  He  turned  his  head 
and  caught  sight  of  the  sea  ;  the  moonlit  waves  made  a 
broad  frame  of  silver  for  the  landscape. 

There  were  lights  in  the  castle  windows.  The  mirth 
and  movement  of  a  ball,  the  sounds  of  the  violins,  the 
laughter  of  the  officers  and  their  partners  in  the  dance 
was  borne  towards  him,  and  blended  with  the  far-off 
murmur  of  the  waves.  The  cool  night  had  a  certain 
bracing  effect  upon  his  frame,  wearied  as  he  had  been 
by  the  heat  of  the  day.  He  seemed  to  bathe  in  the 
air,  made  fragrant  by  the  strong,  sweet  scent  of  flowers 
and  of  aromatic  trees  in  the  gardens. 


El  Verdugo  185 

The  castle  of  Menda  belonged  to  a  Spanish  grandee, 
who  was  living  in  it  at  that  time  with  his  family.  All 
through  the  evening  the  oldest  daughter  of  the  house 
had  watched  the  officer  with  such  a  wistful  interest  that 
the  Spanish  lady's  compassionate  eyes  might  well  have 
set  the  young  Frenchman  dreaming.  Clara  was  beauti- 
ful; and  although  she  had  three  brothers  and  a  sister,  the 
broad  lands  of  the  Marqués  de  Léganès  appeared  to  be 
sufficient  warrant  for  Victor  Marchand's  belief  that  the 
young  lady  would  have  a  splendid  dowry.  But  how 
could  he  dare  to  imagine  that  the  most  fanatical  believer 
in  blue  blood  in  all  Spain  would  give  his  daughter  to  the 
son  of  a  grocer  in  Paris  ?  Moreover,  the  French  were 
hated.  It  was  because  the  Marquis  had  been  suspected 
of  an  attempt  to  raise  the  country  in  favour  of  Ferdinand 

VII.  that  General  G ,  who  governed  the  province, 

had  stationed  Victor  Marchand's  battalion  in  the  Httle 
town  of  Menda  to  overawe  the  neighbouring  districts 
which  received  the  Marqués  de  Légariès'  word  as  law.  A 
recent  despatch  from  Marshaj  Ney  had  given  ground 
for  fear  that  the  English  might  ere  long  eiFect  a  landing 
on  the  coast,  and  had  indicated  the  Marquis  as  being  in 
correspondence  with  the  Cabinet  in  London. 

In  spite,  therefore,  of  the  welcome  with  which  the 
Spaniards  had  received  Victor  Marchand  and  his  soldiers, 
that  officer  was  always  on  his  guard.  As  he  went 
towards  the  terrace,  where  he  had  just  surveyed  the 
town  and  the  districts  confided  to  his  charge,  he  had 
been  asking  himself  what  construction  he  ought  to  put 
upon  the  friendliness  which  the  Marquis  had  invariably 
shown  him,  and  how  to  reconcile  the  apparent  tranquillity 
of  the  country  with  his  General's  uneasiness.  But  a 
moment  later  these  thoughts  were  driven  from  his  mind 
by  the  instinct  of  caution  and  very  legitimate  curiosity. 
It  had  just  struck  him  that  there  was  a  very  fair  number 
of  lights  in  the  town  below.  Although  it  was  the  Feast 
of  Saint  James,  he  himself  had   issued  orders  that  very 


1 86  El  Verdugo 

morning  that  all  lights  must  be  put  out  in  the  town  at 
the  hour  prescribed  by  military  regulations.  The  castle 
alone  had  been  excepted  in  this  order.  Plainly  here  and 
there  he  saw  the  gleam  of  bayonets,  where  his  own  men 
were  at  their  accustomed  posts  ;  but  in  the  town  there 
was  a  solemn  silence,  and  not  a  sign  that  the  Spaniards 
had  given  themselves  up  to  the  intoxication  of  a  festival. 
He  tried  vainly  for  a  while  to  explain  this  breach  of  the 
regulations  on  the  part  of  the  inhabitants;  the  mystery 
seemed  but  so  much  the  more  obscure  because  he  had 
left  instructions  with  some  of  his  officers  to  do  police 
duty  that  night,  and  make  the  rounds  of  the  town. 

With  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  he  was  about  to  spring 
through  a  gap  in  the  wall  preparatory  to  a  rapid  scramble 
down  the  rocks,  thinking  to  reach  a  small  guard-house 
at  the  nearest  entrance  into  the  town  more  quickly  than 
by  the  beaten  track,  when  a  faint  sound  stopped  him. 
He  fancied  that  he  could  hear  the  light  footstep  of  a 
woman  along  the  gravelled  garden  walk.  He  turned  his 
head  and  saw  no  one  ;  for  one  moment  his  eyes  were 
dazzled  by  the  wonderful  brightness  of  the  sea,  the  next 
he  saw  a  sight  so  ominous  that  he  stood  stock-still  with 
amazement,  thinking  that  his  senses  must  be  deceiving 
him.  The  white  moonbeams  lighted  the  horizon,  so 
that  he  could  distinguish  the  sails  of  ships  still  a  consider- 
able distance  out  at  sea.  A  shudder  ran  through  him  ; 
he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  this  was  some  optical 
delusion  brought  about  by  chance  effects  of  moonlight 
on  the  waves  ;  and  even  as  he  made  the  attempt,  a  hoarse 
voice  called  to  him  by  name.  The  officer  glanced  at 
the  gap  in  the  wall  ;  saw  a  soldier's  head  slowly  emerge 
from  it,  and  knew  the  grenadier  whom  he  had  ordered  to 
accompany  him  to  the  castle.  ^s 

*  Is  that  you.  Commandant  ?  ' 

*  Yes.  What  is  it  ?  '  returned  the  young  officer  in  a 
low  voice.  A  kind  of  presentiment  warned  him  to  act 
cautiously. 


El  Verdugo  187 

*  Those  beggars  down  there  are  creeping  about  like 
worms  ;  and,  by  your  leave,  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could 
to  report  my  little  reconnoitring  expedition.' 

'  Go  on,'  answered  Victor  Marchand. 

*I  have  just  been  following  a  man  from  the  castle  who 
came  round  this  way  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand.  A 
lantern  is  a  suspicious  matter  with  a  vengeance  !  I 
don't  imagine  that  there  was  any  need  for  that  good 
Christian  to  be  lighting  tapers  at  this  time  of  night. 
Says  I  to  myself,  "  They  mean  to  gobble  us  up  !  "  and  I 
set  myself  to  dogging  his  heels  ;  and  that  is  how  I  found 
out  that  there  is  a  pile  of  faggots,  sir,  two  or  three  steps 
away  from  here.' 

Suddenly  a  dreadful  shriek  rang  through  the  town 
below,  and  cut  the  man  short.  A  light  flashed  in  the 
Commandant's  face,  and  the  poor  grenadier  dropped 
down  with  a  bullet  through  his  head.  Ten  paces  away 
a  bonfire  flared  up  like  a  conflagration.  The  sounds  of 
music  and  laughter  ceased  all  at  once  in  the  ballroom  ; 
the  silence  of  death,  broken  only  by  groans,  succeeded 
to  the  rhythmical  murmur  of  the  festival.  Then  the 
roar  of  cannon  sounded  from  across  the  white  plain  of 
the  sea. 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  the  young  officer's  fore- 
head. He  had  left  his  sword  behind.  He  knew  that 
his  men  had  been  murdered,  and  that  the  English  were 
about  to  land.  He  knew  that  if  he  lived  he  would  be 
dishonoured  ;  he  saw  himself  summoned  before  a  court- 
martial.  For  a  moment  his  eyes  measured  the  depth  of 
the  valley;  the  next,  just  as  he  was  about  to  spring  down, 
Clara's  hand  caught  his. 

*  Fly  !  '  she  cried.  '  My  brothers  are  coming  after 
me  to  kill  you.  Down  yonder  at  the  foot  of  the  clifF 
you  will  find  Juanito's  Andalusian.     Go  !  ' 

She  thrust  him  away.  The  young  man  gazed  at  her 
in  dull  bewilderment  ;  but  obeying  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  which  never  deserts  even   the   bravest,  he 


1 88  El  Verdugo 

rushed  across  the  park  in  the  direction  pointed  out  to 
him,  springing  from  rock  to  rock  in  places  unknown  to 
any  save  the  goats.  He  heard  Clara  calling  to  her 
brothers  to  pursue  him  ;  he  heard  the  footsteps  of  the 
murderers  ;  again  and  again  he  heard  their  balls  whistling 
about  his  ears  j  but  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  clifF, 
found  the  horse,  mounted,  and  fled  with  lightning  speed. 
A   few  hours  later  the  young  ofl&cer  reached  General 

G 's   quarters,  and    found    him  at  dinner  with  the 

staff. 

*  I  put  my  life  in  your  hands  !  '  cried  the  haggard  and 
exhausted  Commandant  of  Menda. 

He  sank  into  a  seat,  and  told  his  horrible  story.  It 
was  received  with  an  appalling  silence. 

*  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  to 
blame,'  the  terrible  General  said  at  last.  '  You  are  not 
answerable  for  the  Spaniard's  crimes,  and  unless  the 
Marshal  decides  otherwise,  I  acquit  you.' 

These  words  brought  but  cold  comfort  to  the  unfoi- 
tunate  officer. 

*  When  the  Emperor  comes  to  hear  about  it  !  '  he 
cried. 

*  Oh,  he  will  be  for  having  you  shot,'  said  the  General, 
*  but  we  shall  see.  Now  we  will  say  no  more  about 
this,'  he  added  severely,  '  except  to  plan  a  revenge  that 
shall  strike  a  salutary  terror  into  this  country,  where  they 
carry  on  war  like  savages.' 

An  hour  later  a  whole  regiment,  a  detachment  of 
cavalry,  and  a  convoy  of  artillery  were  upon  the  road. 
The  General  and  Victor  marched  at  the  head  of  the 
column.  The  soldiers  had  been  told  of  the  fate  of  their 
comrades,  and  their  rage  knew  no  bounds.  The  distance 
between  headquarters  and  the  town  of  Menda  was 
crossed  at  a  well-nigh  miraculous  speed.  Whole  villages 
by  the  way  were  found  to  be  under  arms  ;  every  one  of 
the  wretched  hamlets  was  surrounded,  and  their  inhabi- 
tants decimated. 


El  Verdugo  189 

It  so  chanced  that  the  English  vessels  still  lay  out 
at  sea,  and  were  no  nearer  the  shore,  a  fact  inex- 
plicable until  it  was  known  afterwards  that  they  were 
artillery  transports  which  had  outsailed  the  rest  of  the 
fleet.  So  the  townsmen  of  Menda,  left  without  the 
assistance  on  which  they  had  reckoned  when  the  sails 
of  the  English  appeared,  were  surrounded  by  French 
troops  almost  before  they  had  had  time  to  strike  a  blow. 
This  struck  such  terror  into  them  that  they  offered  to 
surrender  at  discretion.  An  impulse  of  devotion,  no 
isolated  instance  in  the  history  of  the  Peninsula,  led  the 
actual  slayers  of  the  French  to  offer  to  give  themselves 
up  ;  seeking  in  this  way  to  save  the  town,  for  from 
the  General's  reputation  for  cruelty  it  was  feared  that  he 
would  give  Menda  over  to  the  flames,  and  put  the  whole 

population  to  the   sword.     General  G took  their 

offer,  stipulating  that  every  soul  in  the  castle  from  the 
lowest  servant  to  the  Marquis  should  likewise  be  given 
up  to  him.  These  terms  being  accepted,  the  General 
promised  to  spare  the  lives  of  the  rest  of  the  townsmen, 
and  to  prohibit  his  soldiers  from  pillaging  or  setting  fire 
to  the  town.  A  heavy  contribution  was  levied,  and  the 
wealthiest  inhabitants  were  taken  as  hostages  to  guarantee 
payment  within  twenty-four  hours. 

The  General  took  every  necessary  precaution  for  the 
safety  of  his  troops,  provided  for  the  defence  of  the  place, 
and  refused  to  billet  his  men  in  the  houses  of  the  town. 
After  they  had  bivouacked,  he  went  up  to  the  castle  and 
entered  it  as  a  conqueror.  The  whole  family  of  Léganès 
and  their  household  were  gagged,  shut  up  in  the  great 
ballroom,  and  closely  watched.  From  the  windows  it 
was  easy  to  see  the  whole  length  of  the  terrace  above  the 
town. 

The  staff  was  established  in  an  adjoining  gallery,  where 
the  General  forthwith  held  a  council  as  to  the  best  means 
of  preventing  the  landing  of  the  English.  An  aide-de- 
camp was  despatched  to  Marshal  Ney,  orders  were  issued 


I  CO  EI  Verdugo 

to  plant  batteries  along  the  coast,  and  then  the  General 
and  his  staff  turned  their  attention  to  their  prisoners. 
The  two  hundred  Spaniards  given  up  by  the  townsfolk 
were  shot  down  then  and  there  upon  the  terrace.  And 
after  this  military  execution,  the  General  gave  orders  to 
erect  gibbets  to  the  number  of  the  prisoners  in  the  ball- 
room in  the  same  place,  and  to  send  for  the  hangman  out 
of  the  town.  Victor  took  advantage  of  the  interval 
before  dinner  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  prisoners.  He  soon 
came  back  to  the  General. 

*  I  am  come  in  haste,'  he  faltered  out,  '  to  ask  a 
favour.' 

'  JTou  !  '  exclaimed  the  General,  with  bitter  irony  in  his 
tones. 

'  Alas  ! '  answered  Victor,  'it  is  a  sorry  favour.  The 
Marquis  has  seen  them  erecting  the  gallows,  and  hopes 
that  you  will  commute  the  punishment  for  his  family  i 
he  entreats  you  to  have  the  nobles  beheaded.' 

'  Granted,'  said  the  General. 

*  He  further  asks  that  they  may  be  allowed  the  consola- 
tions of  religion,  and  that  they  may  be  unbound  ;  they 
give  you  their  word  that  they  will  not  attempt  to 
escape.' 

*That  I  permit,'  said  the  General,  'but  you  are 
answerable  for  them.' 

'  The  old  noble  offers  you  all  that  he  has  if  you  will 
pardon  his  youngest  son.' 

'  Really  !  '  cried  the  Commander.  '  His  property  is 
forfeit  already  to  King  Joseph.'  He  paused  j  a  con- 
temptuous thought  set  wrinkles  in  his  forehead,  as  he 
added,  '  I  will  do  better  than  they  ask.  I  understand 
what  he  means  by  that  last  request  of  his.  Very  good. 
Let  him  hand  down  his  name  to  posterity  ;  but  whenever 
it  is  mentioned,  all  Spain  shall  remember  his  treason  and 
its  punishment  !  I  will  give  the  fortune  and  his  Hfe  to 
any  one  of  the  sons  who  will  do  the  executioner's  office. 
.  .  .  There,  don't  talk  any  more  about  them  to  me.' 


El  Verdugo  191 

Dinner  was  ready.  The  officers  sat  down  to  satisfy 
an  appetite  whetted  by  hunger.  Only  one  among  them 
was  absent  from  the  table  —  that  one  was  Victor 
Marchand.  After  long  hesitation,  he  went  to  the  ball- 
room, and  heard  the  last  sighs  of  the  proud  house  of 
Léganès.  He  looked  sadly  at  the  scene  before  him. 
Only  last  night,  in  this  very  room,  he  had  seen  their 
faces  whirled  past  him  in  the  waltz,  and  he  shuddered  to 
think  that  those  girlish  heads  with  those  of  the  three 
young  brothers  must  fall  in  a  brief  space  by  the  execu- 
tioner's sword.  There  sat  the  father  and  mother,  their 
three  sons  and  two  daughters,  perfectly  motionless,  bound 
to  their  gilded  chairs.  Eight  serving  men  stood  with 
their  hands  tied  behind  them.  These  fifteen  prisoners, 
under  sentence  of  death,  exchanged  grave  glances  j  it  was 
difficult  to  read  the  thoughts  that  filled  them  from  their 
eyes,  but  profound  resignation  and  regret  that  their  enter- 
prise should  have  failed  so  completely  was  written  on 
more  than  one  brow. 

The  impassive  soldiers  who  guarded  them  respected 
the  grief  of  their  bitter  enemies.  A  gleam  of  curiosity 
lighted  up  all  faces  when  Victor  came  in.  He  gave 
orders  that  the  condemned  prisoners  should  be  unbound, 
and  himself  unfastened  the  cords  that  held  Clara  a 
prisoner.  She  smiled  mournfully  at  him.  The  officer 
could  not  refrain  from  lightly  touching  the  young  girl's 
arm  ;  he  could  not  help  admiring  her  dark  hair,  her 
slender  waist.  She  was  a  true  daughter  of  Spain,  with  a 
[Spanish  complexion,  a  Spaniard's  eyes,  blacker  than  the 
aven's  wing  beneath  their  long  curving  lashes. 

'  Did  you  succeed  ?  '  she  asked,  with  a  mournful  smile, 
in  which  a  certain  girlish  charm  still  lingered. 

Victor  could  not  repress  a  groan.  He  looked  from 
the  faces  of  the  three  brothers  to  Clara,  and  again  at  the 
:hree  young  Spaniards.  The  first,  the  oldest  of  the 
amily,  was  a  man  of  thirty.  He  was  short,  and  some- 
vhat   ill  made  ;  he  looked   haughty  and  proud,  but   a 


192  El  Verdugo 

certain  distinction  was  not  lacking  in  his  bearing,  and  he 
was  apparently  no  stranger  to  the  delicacy  of  feeling  for 
which  in  olden  times  the  chivalry  of  Spain  was  famous. 
His  name  was  Juanito.  The  second  son,  Felipe,  was 
about  twenty  years  of  age  ;  he  was  like  his  sister  Clara  ; 
and  the  youngest  was  a  child  of  eight.  In  the  features  of 
the  little  Manuel  a  painter  would  have  discerned  some- 
thing of  that  Roman  steadfastness  which  David  has 
given  to  the  children's  faces  in  his  Republican  genre 
pictures.  The  old  Marquis,  with  his  white  hair,  might 
have  come  down  from  some  canvas  of  Murillo's.  Victor 
threw  back  his  head  in  despair  after  this  survey  ;  how 
should  one  of  these  accept  the  General's  oiFer  !  neverthe- 
less he  ventured  to  intrust  it  to  Clara.  A  shudder  ran 
through  the  Spanish  girl,  but  she  recovered  herself 
almost  instantly,  and  knelt  before  her  father. 

'  Father,'  she  said,  '  bid  Juanito  swear  to  obey  the  com- 
mands that  you  shall  give  him,  and  we  shall  be  content.' 

The  Marquesa  trembled  with  hope,  but  as  she  leant 
towards  her  husband  and  learned  Clara's  hideous  secret, 
the  mother  fainted  away.  Juanito  understood  it  all,  and 
leapt  up  like  a  caged  lion.  Victor  took  it  upon  himself 
to  dismiss  the  soldiers,  after  receiving  an  assurance  of 
entire  submission  from  the  Marquis.  The  servants  were 
led  away  and  given  over  to  the  hangman  and  their  fate. 
When  only  Victor  remained  on  guard  in  the  room,  the 
old  Marqués  de  Léganès  rose  to  his  feet. 

*  Juanito,'  he  said.  For  all  answer  Juanito  bowed  his 
head  in  a  way  that  meant  refusal  ;  he  sank  down  into  his 
chair,  and  fixed  tearless  eyes  upon  his  father  and  mother 
in  an  intolerable  gaze.  Clara  went  over  to  him  and  sat 
on  his  knee  ;  she  put  her  arms  about  him,  and  pressed 
kisses  on  his  eyelids,  saying  gaily — 

'  Dear  Juanito,  if  you  but  knew  how  sweet  death  at 
your  hands  will  be  to  me  !  I  shall  not  be  compelled  to 
submit  to  the  hateful  touch  of  the  hangman's  fingers. 
You  will  snatch  me  away  from  the  evils  to  come  and  .  .  . 


El  Verdugo  193 

)ear,  kind  Jiianito,  you  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
ny  belonging  to  any  one — well,  then  ?  ' 

The  velvet  eyes  gave  Victor  a  burning  glance  ;  she 
eemed  to  try  to  aw^aken  in  Juanito's  heart  his  hatred  for 
he  French. 

*  Take  courage,'  said  his  brother  Felipe,  *or  our  well- 
ligh  royal  line  will  be  extinct.' 

Suddenly  Clara  sprang  to  her  feet.     The  group  round 

uanito   fell   back,  and   the  son  who  had  rebelled  with 

ch  good  reason  was  confronted  with  his  aged  father, 

'  Juanito,    I    command     you  !  '     said    the     Marquis 

lemnly. 

The  young  Count  gave  no  sign,  and  his  father  fell 

his  knees  ;  Clara,  Manuel,  and  Felipe  unconsciously 
llowed  his  example,  stretching  out  suppliant  hands  to 
m  who  must  save  their  family  from  oblivion,  and 
eming  to  echo  their  father's  words. 
'  Can  it  be  that  you  lack  the  fortitude  of  a  Spaniard 
d  true  sensibility,  my  .son  ?  Do  you  mean  to  keep 
on    my    kn^es?  ""  W.'iàt   light  hdv^'you    to    think 

your  own  life  and  of  your  own  sufferings  ? — Is  this 

son,  madam?'  the  old  Marquis  added,  turning  to 

wife.  •  '  '  ■      - 

*  He  will  consent  to  it,'  rned  the  mother  in  agony  of 
1.  She  had  seen  asHght  "coritractïon  of  Juanito's 
ws  which  she,  his  moihér,' alone'  understood. 

Mariquita,  the  second  daughter,  knelt,  with  her  slender 

nging  arms  about  her  mother  ;  the  hot  tears  fell  from 

r  eyes,  and  her  little  brother  Manuel  upbraided  her 

weeping.     Just  at  that  moment  the  castle  chaplain 

e  in  ;  the  whole  family  surrounded  him  and  led  him 

to  Juanito.     Victor   felt   that  he   could  endure  the 

ht  no  longer,  and  with  a  sign  to  Clara  he  hurried 

m  the  room  to  make  one  last  effort  for  them.      He 

nd  the  General  in  boisterous  spirits  ;   the  officers  were 

1  sitting  over  their  dinner  and  drinking  together  ;  the 

e  had  loosened  their  tongues. 

N 


194  El  Verdugo 

An  hour  later,  a  hundred  of  the  principal  citizens  of 
Menda  were  summoned  to  the  terrace  by  the  General's 
orders  to  witness  the  execution  of  the  family  of  Légaiïès. 
A  detachment  had  been  told  off  to  keep  order  among 
the  Spanish  townsfolk,  who  were  marshalled  beneath 
the  gallows  whereon  the  Marquis's  servants  hung  ;  the 
feet  of  those  martyrs  of  their  cause  all  but  touched  the 
citizens'  heads.  Thirty  paces  away  stood  the  block  ;  the 
blade  of  a  scimitar  glittered  upon  it,  and  the  executioner 
stood  by  in  case  Juanito  should  refuse  at  the  last. 

The  deepest  silence  prevailed,  but  before  long  it  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  many  footsteps,  the  measured 
tramp  of  a  picket  of  soldiers,  and  the  jingling  of  their 
weapons.  Mingled  with  these  came  other  noises — loud 
talk  and  laughter  from  the  dinner-table  where  the  officers 
were  sitting  ;  just  as  the  music  and  the  sound  of  the 
dancers'  feet  had  drowned  the  preparations  for  last  night's 
treacherous  butchery. 

All  eyes  turned  to  the  castle,  and  beheld  the  family  of 
nobles  coming  forth  with  incredible  composure  to  their 
death.  Every  brow  was  serene  and  calm.  One  alone 
among  them,  haggard  and  overcome,  leant  on  the  arm 
of  the  priest,  who  poured  forth  all  the  consolations  of  re- 
ligion for  the  one  man  who  was  condemned  to  live.  Then 
the  executioner,  like  the  spectators,  knew  that  Juanito 
had  consented  to  perform  his  office  for  a  day.  The  old 
Marquis  and  his  wife,  Clara  and  Mariquita,  and  their 
two  brothers  knelt  a  few  paces  from  the  fatal  spot. 
Juanito  reached  it,  guided  by  the  priest.  As  he  stood 
at  the  block  the  executioner  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve, 
and  took  him  aside,  probably  to  give  him  certain  instruc- 
tions. The  confessor  so  placed  the  victims  that  they 
could  not  witness  the  executions,  but  one  and  all  stood 
upright  and  fearless,  like  Spaniards,  as  they  were. 

Clara  sprang  to  her  brother's  side  before  the  others. 

*  Juanito,'  she  said  to  him,  '  be  merciful  to  my  lack  of 
courage.     Take  me  first  !  ' 


El  Verdugo  195 

As  she  spoke,  the  footsteps  of  a  man  running  at  full 
speed  echoed  from  the  walls,  and  Victor  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  Clara  was  kneeling  before  the  block  ;  her 
white  neck  seemed  to  appeal  to  the  blade  to  fall.  The 
officer  turned  faint,  but  he  found  strength  to  rush  to 
her  side. 

'The  General  grants  you  your  life  if  you  will  consent 
to  marry  me,'  he  murmured. 

The  Spanish  girl  gave  the  officer  a  glance  full  of 
proud  disdain. 

*  Now,  Juanito  !  '  she  said  in  her  deep-toned  voice. 
Her  head  fell  at  Victor's  feet.    A  shudder  ran  through 

the  Marquesa  de  Léganès,  a  convulsive  tremor  that  she 
could  not  control,  but  she  gave  no  other  sign  of  her 
anguish. 

'  Is  this  where  I  ought  to  be,  dear  Juanito  ?  Is  it  all 
right  ?  '  little  Manuel  asked  his  brother. 

'  Oh,  Mariquita,  you  are  weeping  !  '  Juanito  said  when 
his  sister  came. 

*  Yes,*  said  the  girl  ;  *  I  am  thinking  of  you,  poor 
Juanito  ;  how  unhappy  you  will  be  when  we  are 
gone.' 

Then  the  Marquis's  tall  figure  approached.  He 
looked  at  the  block  where  his  children's  blood  had  been 
shed,  turned  to  the  mute  and  motionless  crowd,  and 
said  in  a  loud  voice  as  he  stretched  out  his  hands  to 
Juanito — 

'  Spaniards  !  I  give  my  son  a  father's  blessing. — 
Now,  Marquis^  strike  "  without  fear  "  ;  thou  art  "  with- 
out reproach." ' 

But  when  his  mother  came  near,  leaning  on  the  con- 
fessor's arm — *  She  fed  me  from  her  breast  !  '  Juanito 
cried,  in  tones  that  drew  a  cry  of  horror  from  the 
crowd.  The  uproarious  mirth  of  the  officers  over  their 
wine  died  away  before  that  terrible  cry.  The  Marquesa 
knew  that  Juanito's  courage  was  exhausted  ;  at  one 
bound  she  sprang  to  the  balustrade,  leapt  forth,  and  was 


196  El  Verdugo 

dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  below.     A  cry  of  admira- 
tion broke  from  the  spectators.     Juanito  swooned. 

*  General,'  said  an  officer,  half  drunk  by  this  time, 
'  Marchand  has  just  been  telling  me  something  about 
this  execution  ;  I  will  wager  that  it  was  not  by  your 
orders ' 

'  Are  you  forgetting,  gentlemen,  that  in  a  month's 
time  five  hundred  families  in  France  will  be  in  mourn- 
ing, and  that  we  are  still  in  Spain  ?  '  cried  General  G . 

*  Do  you  want  us  to  leave  our  bones  here  ?  ' 

But  not  a  man  at  the  table,  not  even  a  subaltern,  dared 
to  empty  his  glass  after  that  speech. 

In  spite  of  the  respect  in  which  all  men  hold  the  Mar- 
ques de  Légafiès,  in  spite  of  the  title  of  El  Verdugo  (the 
executioner)  conferred  upon  him  as  a  patent  of  nobility 
by  the  King  of  Spain,  the  great  noble  is  consumed  by 
a  gnawing  grief.  He  lives  a  retired  life,  and  seldom 
appears  in  public.  The  burden  of  his  heroic  crime 
weighs  heavily  upon  him,  and  he  seems  to  wait  im- 
patiently till  the  birth  of  a  second  son  shall  release  him, 
and  he  may  go  to  join  the  Shades  that  never  cease  to 
haunt  him. 

Paris,  October  1820. 


FAREWELL 

To  Prince  Friedrich  von  Schwarzenberg 

*CoME,  Deputy  of  the  Centre,  come  along  !  We  shall 
have  to  mend  our  pace  if  we  mean  to  sit  down  to  dinner 
when  every  one  else  does,  and  that's  a  fact  !  Hurry  up  ! 
Jump,  Marquis  !  That 's  it  !  Well  done  !  You  are 
bounding  over  the  furrows  just  like  a  stag  !  ' 

These  words  were  uttered  by  a  sportsman  seated  much 
at  his  ease  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Forêt  de  I'lsle-Adam  ; 
he  had  just  finished  a  Havannah  cigar,  which  he  had 
smoked  while  he  waited  for  his  companion,  who  had 
evidently  been  straying  about  for  some  time  among  the 
forest  undergrowth.  Four  panting  dogs  by  the  speaker's 
side  likewise  watched  the  progress  of  the  personage  for 
whose  benefit  the  remarks  were  made.  To  make  their 
sarcastic  import  fully  clear,  it  should  be  added  that  the 
second  sportsman  was  both  short  and  stout  ;  his  ample 
girth  indicated  a  truly  magisterial  corpulence,  and  in 
consequence  his  progress  across  the  furrows  was  by  no 
means  easy.  He  was  striding  over  a  vast  field  of  stubble  ; 
the  dried  corn-stalks  underfoot  added  not  a  little  to  the 
difficulties  of  his  passage,  and  to  add  to  his  discomforts, 
the  genial  influence  of  the  sun  that  slanted  into  his  eyes 
brought  great  drops  of  perspiration  into  his  face.  The 
uppermost  thought  in  his  mind  being  a  strong  desire  to 
keep  his  balance,  he  lurched  to  and  fro  much  like  a  coach 
jolted  over  an  atrocious  road, 

197 


198  Farewell 

It  was  one  of  those  September  days  of  almost  tropical 
heat  that  finishes  the  work  of  summer  and  ripens  the 
grapes.  Such  heat  forebodes  a  coming  storm  ;  and 
though  as  yet  there  were  wide  patches  of  blue  between 
the  dark  rain-clouds  low  down  on  the  horizon,  pale 
golden  masses  were  rising  and  scattering  with  ominous 
swiftness  from  west  to  east,  and  drawing  a  shadowy  veil 
across  the  sky.  The  wind  was  still,  save  in  the  upper 
regions  of  the  air,  so  that  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere 
seemed  to  compress  the  steamy  heat  of  the  earth  into  the 
forest  glades.  The  tall  forest  trees  shut  out  every  breath 
of  air  so  completely  that  the  little  valley  across  which 
the  sportsman  was  making  his  way  was  as  hot  as  a 
furnace  ;  the  silent  forest  seemed  parched  with  the  fiery 
heat.  Birds  and  insects  were  mute  ;  the  topmost  twigs 
of  the  trees  swayed  with  scarcely  perceptible  motion. 
Any  one  who  retains  some  recollection  of  the  summer 
of  1 8 19  must  surely  compassionate  the  plight  of  the 
hapless  supporter  of  the  ministry  who  toiled  and  sweated 
over  the  stubble  to  rejoin  his  satirical  comrade.  That 
gentleman,  as  he  smoked  his  cigar,  had  arrived,  by  a 
process  of  calculation  based  on  the  altitude  of  the  sun,  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  about  five  o'clock. 

'  Where  the  devil  are  we  ?  '  asked  the  stout  sportsman. 
He  wiped  his  brow  as  he  spoke,  and  propped  himself 
against  a  tree  in  the  field  opposite  his  companion,  feel- 
ing quite  unequal  to  clearing  the  broad  ditch  that  lay 
between  them. 

*  And  you  ask  that  question  of  me  !  '  retorted  the  other, 
laughing  fr^om  his  bed  of  tall  brown  grasses  on  the  top  of 
the  bank.  He  flung  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  ditch, 
exclaiming,  *  I  swear  by  Saint  Hubert  that  no  one  shall 
catch  me  risking  myself  again  in  a  country  that  I  don't 
know  with  a  magistrate,  even  if,  like  you,  my  dear 
d'Albon,  he  happens  to  be  an  old  schoolfellow.' 

'  Why,  Philip,  have  you  really  forgotten  your  own 
language  ?     You  surely  must  have  left  your  wits  behind 


Farewell 


99 


you  in  Siberia,'  said  the  stouter  of  the  two,  with  a  glance 
half-comic,  half-pathetic  at  a  guide-post  distant  about  a 
hundred  paces  from  them. 

'  I  understand,'  replied  the  one  addressed  as  Philip. 
He  snatched  up  his  rifle,  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet, 
made  but  one  jump  of  it  into  the  field,  and  rushed  off  to 
the  guide-post.  '  This  way,  d'Albon,  here  you  are  ! 
left  about  !  '  he  shouted,  gesticulating  in  the  direction  of 
the  high-road.  *  To  Baillet  and  T Isle-Adam  !  '  he  went 
on  ;  '  so  if  we  go  along  here,  we  shall  be  sure  to  come 
upon  the  cross-road  to  Cassan.' 

*  Quite  right,  Colonel,'  said  M.  d'Albon,  putting  the 
cap  with  which  he  had  been  fanning  himself  back  on  his 
head. 

'  lihtn  forward  !  highly  respected  Councillor,'  returned 
Colonel  Philip,  whistling  to  the  dogs,  that  seemed  already 
to  obey  him  rather  than  the  magistrate  their  master. 

*  Are  you  aware,  my  lord  Marquis,  that  two  leagues 
yet  remain  before  us  ?  '  inquired  the  malicious  soldier. 
*  That  village  down  yonder  must  be  Baillet.' 

'  Great  heavens  !  '  cried  the  Marquis  d'Albon.  '  Go 
on  to  Cassan  by  all  means,  if  you  like  ;  but  if  you  do,  you 
will  go  alone.  I  prefer  to  wait  here,  storm  or  no  storm  ; 
you  can  send  a  horse  for  me  from  the  chateau.  You 
have  been  making  game  of  me,  Sucy.  We  were  to  have 
a  nice  day's  sport  by  ourselves  ;  we  were  not  to  go  very 
far  from  Cassan,  and  go  over  ground  that  I  knew. 
Pooh  !  Instead  of  a  day's  fun,  you  have  kept  me  run- 
ning like  a  greyhound  since  four  o'clock  this  morning, 
and  nothing  but  a  cup  or  two  of  milk  by  way  of  break- 
fast. Oh  !  if  ever  you  find  yourself  in  a  court  of  law,  I 
will  take  care  that  the  day  goes  against  you  if  you  were 
in  the  right  a  hundred  times  over.' 

The  dejected  sportsman  sat  himself  down  on  one  of 
the  stumps  at  the  foot  of  the  guide-post,  disencumbered 
himself  of  his  rifle  and  empty  game-bag,  and  heaved  a 
prolonged  sigh. 


200  Farewell 

'  Oh,  France,  behold  thy  Deputies  !  *  laughed  Colonel 
de  Sucy.  '  Poor  old  d'Albon  ;  if  you  had  spent  six 
months  at  the  other  end  of  Siberia  as  I  did  .  .  .' 

He  broke  off,  and  his  eyes  sought  the  sky,  as  if  the 
story  of  his  troubles  was  a  secret  between  himself  and 
God. 

'  Come,  march  !  '  he  added.  '  If  you  once  sit  down,  it 
is  all  over  with  you.' 

*  I  can't  help  it,  Philip  !  It  is  such  an  old  habit  in  a 
magistrate  !  I  am  dead  beat,  upon  my  honour.  If  I 
had  only  bagged  one  hare  though  !  ' 

Two  men  more  different  are  seldom  seen  together. 
The  civilian,  a  man  of  forty-two,  seemed  scarcely  more 
than  thirty  ;  while  the  soldier,  at  thirty  years  of  age, 
looked  to  be  forty  at  the  least.  Both  wore  the  red 
rosette  that  proclaimed  them  to  be  officers  of  the  Legion 
of  Honour.  A  few  locks  of  hair,  mingled  white  and 
black,  like  a  magpie's  wing,  had  strayed  from  beneath  the 
Colonel's  cap  ;  while  thick,  fair  curls  clustered  about  the 
magistrate's  temples.  The  Colonel  was  tall,  spare,  dried 
up,  but  muscular  ;  the  lines  in  his  pale  face  told  a  tale  of 
vehement  passions  or  of  terrible  sorrows  j  but  his  com- 
rade's jolly  countenance  beamed  with  health,  and  would 
have  done  credit  to  an  Epicurean.  Both  men  were 
deeply  sunburnt.  Their  high  gaiters  of  brown  leather 
carried  souvenirs  of  every  ditch  and  swamp  that  they 
crossed  that  day. 

'  Come,  come,'  cried  M.  de  Sucy,  '  forward  !  One 
short  hour's  march,  and  we  shall  be  at  Cassan  with  a 
good  dinner  before  us.' 

'  You  never  were  in  love,  that  is  positive,'  returned  the 
Councillor,  with  a  comically  piteous  expression.  *You 
are  as  inexorable  as  Article  304  of  the  Penal  Code  !  ' 

Philip  de  Sucy  shuddered  violently.  Deep  lines 
appeared  in  his  broad  forehead,  his  face  was  overcast  like 
the  sky  above  rhem  ;  but  though  his  features  seemed  to 
contract  with  the  pain  of  an  intolerably  bitter  memory, 


Farewell  20 1 

no  tears  came  to  his  eyes.  Like  all  men  of  strong 
character,  he  possessed  the  power  of  forcing  his  emotions 
down  into  some  inner  depth,  and,  perhaps,  like  many 
reserved  natures,  he  shrank  from  laying  bare  a  wound 
too  deep  for  any  words  of  human  speech,  and  winced  at 
the  thought  of  ridicule  from  those  who  do  not  care  to 
understand.  M.  d'Albon  wag  one  of  those  who  are 
keenly  sensitive  by  nature  to  the  distress  of  others,  who 
feel  at  once  the  pain  they  have  unwittingly  given  by 
some  blunder.  He  respected  his  friend's  mood,  rose  to 
his  feet,  forgot  his  weariness,  and  followed  in  silence, 
thoroughly  annoyed  with  himself  for  having  touched  on 
a  wound  that  seemed  not  yet  healed. 

'  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  my  story,'  Philip  said  at 
last,  wringing  his  friend's  hand,  while  he  acknowledged 
his  dumb  repentance  with  a  heartrending  glance.  '  To- 
day, I  cannot.' 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  As  the  Colonel's  distress 
passed  ofF  the  Councillor's  fatigue  returned.  Instinctively, 
or  rather  urged  by  weariness,  his  eyes  explored  the  depths 
of  the  forest  around  them  ;  he  looked  high  and  low 
among  the  trees,  and  gazed  along  the  avenues,  hoping  to 
discover  some  dwelling  where  he  might  ask  for  hospi- 
tality. They  reached  a  place  where  several  roads  met  ; 
and  the  Councillor,  fancying  that  he  saw  a  thin  film  of 
smoke  rising  through  the  trees,  made  a  stand  and  looked 
sharply  about  him.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dark 
green  branches  of  some  firs  among  the  other  forest  trees, 
and  finally,  '  A  house  !  a  house  !  '  he  shouted.  No 
sailor  could  have  raised  the  cry  of  '  Land  a-head  !  '  more 
joyfully  than  he. 

He  plunged  at  once  into  undergrowth,  somewhat  of 
the  thickest  ;  and  the  Colonel,  who  had  fallen  into  deep 
musings,  followed  him  unheedingly. 

*  I  would  rather  have  an  omelette  here  and  home-made 
bread,  and  a  chair  to  sit  down  in,  than  go  further  for  a 
sofa,  truffles,  and  Bordeaux  wine  at  Cassan.' 


202  Farewell 

This  outburst  of  enthusiasm  on  the  Councillor's  part 
was  caused  by  the  sight  of  the  whitened  wall  of  a  house 
in  the  distance,  standing  out  in  strong  contrast  against 
the  brown  masses  of  knotted  tree-trunks  in  the  forest. 

'  Aha  !  This  used  to  be  a  priory,  I  should  say,'  the 
Marquis  d'Albon  cried  once  more,  as  they  stood  before  a 
grim  old  gateway.  Through  the  grating  they  could  see 
the  house  itself  standing  in  the  midst  of  some  consider- 
able extent  of  park  land  ;  from  the  style  of  the  architec- 
ture it  appeared  to  have  been  a  monastery  once  upon  a 
time. 

*  Those  knowing  rascals  of  monks  knew  how  to  choose 
a  site  !  ' 

This  last  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  magistrate's 
amazement  at  the  romantic  hermitage  before  his  eyes. 
The  house  had  been  built  on  a  spot  half-way  up  the  hill- 
side on  the  slope  below  the  village  of  Nerville,  which 
crowned  the  summit.  A  huge  circle  of  great  oak-trees, 
hundreds  of  years  old,  guarded  the  solitary  place  from 
intrusion.  There  appeared  to  be  about  forty  acres  of 
the  park.  The  main  building  of  the  monastery  faced  the 
south,  and  stood  in  a  space  of  green  meadow,  picturesquely 
intersected  by  several  tiny  clear  streams,  and  by  larger 
sheets  of  water  so  disposed  as  to  have  a  natural  effect. 
Shapely  trees  with  contrasting  foliage  grew  here  and 
there.  Grottos  had  been  ingeniously  contrived  ;  and 
broad  terraced  walks,  now  in  ruin,  though  the  steps 
were  broken  and  the  balustrades  eaten  through  with 
rust,  gave  to  this  sylvan  Thebaïd  a  certain  character  of 
its  own.  The  art  of  man  and  the  picturesqueness  of 
nature  had  wrought  together  to  produce  a  charming 
effect.  Human  passions  surely  could  not  cross  that 
boundary  of  tall  oak-trees  which  shut  out  the  sounds  of 
the  outer  world,  and  screened  the  fierce  heat  of  the  sun 
from  this  forest  sanctuary. 

*  What  neglect  !  '  said  M.  d'Albon  to  himself,  after 
the  first  sense  of  delight  in  the  melancholy  aspect  of 


Farewell  203 

the  ruins  in  the  landscape,  which  seemed  blighted  by  a 
curse. 

It  was  like  some  haunted  spot,  shunned  of  men.  The 
twisted  ivy  stems  clambered  everywhere,  hiding  every- 
thing away  beneath  a  luxuriant  green  mantle.  Moss 
and  lichens,  brown  and  grey,  yellow  and  red,  covered 
the  trees  with  fantastic  patches  of  colour,  grew  upon  the 
benches  in  the  garden,  overran  the  roof  and  the  walls  of 
the  house.  The  window-sashes  were  weather-worn  and 
warped  with  age,  the  balconies  were  dropping  to  pieces, 
the  terraces  in  ruins.  Here  and  there  the  folding  shutters 
hung  by  a  single  hinge.  The  crazy  doors  would  have 
given  way  at  the  first  attempt  to  force  an  entrance. 

Out  in  the  orchard  the  neglected  fruit-trees  were 
running  to  wood,  the  rambling  branches  bore  no  fruit 
save  the  glistening  mistletoe  berries,  and  tall  plants 
were  growing  in  the  garden  walks.  All  this  forlorn- 
ness  shed  a  charm  across  the  picture  that  wrought  on 
the  spectator's  mind  with  an  influence  like  that  of  some 
enchanting  poem,  filling  his  soul  with  dreamy  fancies 
A  poet  must  have  lingered  there  in  deep  and  melancholy 
musings,  marvelling  at  the  harmony  of  this  wilderness, 
where  decay  had  a  certain  grace  of  its  own. 

In  a  moment  a  few  gleams  of  sunlight  struggled 
through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  and  a  shower  of  coloured 
light  fell  over  the  wild  garden.  The  brown  tiles  of  the 
roof  glowed  in  the  light,  the  mosses  took  bright  hues, 
strange  shadows  played  over  the  grass  beneath  the  trees  ; 
the  dead  autumn  tints  grew  vivid,  bright  unexpected 
contrasts  were  evoked  by  the  light,  every  leaf  stood  out 
sharply  in  the  clear,  thin  air.  Then  all  at  once  the  sun- 
light died  away,  and  the  landscape  that  seemed  to  have 
spoken  grew  silent  and  gloomy  again,  or  rather,  it  took 
grey  soft  tones  like  the  tenderest  hues  of  autumn  dusk. 

*  It  is  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,'  the  Councillor 
said  to  himself  (he  had  already  begun  to  look  at  the  place 
from  the  point  of  view  of  an  owner  of  property).    '  Whom 


204  Farewell 

can  the  place  belong  to,  I  wonder.     He  must  be  a  great 
fool  not  to  live  on  such  a  charming  little  estate  !  ' 

Just  at  that  moment,  a  woman  sprang  out  from  under 
a  walnut  tree  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  gateway,  and 
passed  before  the  Councillor  as  noiselessly  and  swiftly  as 
the  shadow  of  a  cloud.  This  apparition  struck  him  dumb 
with  amazement. 

*  Hallo,  d'Albon,  what  is  the  matter  ?  '  asked  the 
Colonel. 

'  I  am  rubbing  my  eyes  to  find  out  whether  I  am 
awake  or  asleep,'  answered  the  magistrate,  whose  coun- 
tenance was  pressed  against  the  grating  in  the  hope  of 
catching  a  second  glimpse  of  the  ghost. 

*  In  all  probabihty  she  is  under  that  fig-tree,'  he  went 
on,  indicating,  for  Philip's  benefit,  some  branches  that 
over-topped  the  wall  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  gate- 
way. 

'  She  ?     Who  ?  ' 

*  Eh  !  how  should  I  know  ?  '  answered  M.  d'Albon. 
'  A  strange-looking  woman  sprang  up  there  under  my 
very  eyes  just  now,'  he  added,  in  a  low  voice  ;  '  she  looked 
to  me  more  like  a  ghost  than  a  living  being.  She  was 
so  slender,  light,  and  shadowy  that  she  might  be  trans- 
parent. Her  face  was  as  white  as  milk,  her  hair,  her  eyes, 
and  her  dress  were  black.  She  gave  me  a  glance  as  she 
flitted  by.  I'  am  not  easily  frightened,  but  that  cold 
stony  stare  of  hers  froze  the  blood  in  my  veins.' 

*  Was  she  pretty  ?  '  inquired  Philip. 

'  I  don't  know.  I  saw  nothing  but  those  eyes  in  her 
head.' 

*  The  devil  take  dinner  at  Cassan  !  *  exclaimed  the 
Colonel  y  *  let  us  stay  here.  I  am  as  eager  as  a  boy  to 
see  the  inside  of  this  queer  place.  The  window-sashes 
are  painted  red,  do  you  see  ?  There  is  a  red  line  round 
the  panels  of  the  doors  and  the  edges  of  the  shutters. 
It  might  be  the  devil's  own  dwelling  ;  perhaps  he  took 
it  over  when  the  monks  went  out.     Now,  then,  let  us 


Farewell  205 

give  chase  to  the  black  and  white  lady  ;  come  along  !  ' 
cried  Philip,  with  forced  gaiety. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  speaking  when  the  two 
sportsmen  heard  a  cry  as  if  some  bird  had  been  taken 
in  a  snare.  They  listened.  There  was  a  sound  like 
the  murmur  of  rippling  water,  as  something  forced  its 
way  through  the  bushes  ;  but  diligently  as  they  lent 
their  ears,  there  was  no  footfall  on  the  path,  the  earth 
kept  the  secret  of  the  mysterious  woman's  passage,  if 
indeed  she  had  moved  from  her  hiding-place. 

'  This  is  very  strange  !  '  cried  Philip. 

Following  the  wall  of  the  park,  the  two  friends  reached 
before  long  a  forest  road  leading  to  the  village  of  Chauvry  ; 
they  went  along  this  track  in  the  direction  of  the  high- 
way to  Paris,  and  reached  another  large  gateway. 
Through  the  railings  they  had  a  complete  view  of  the 
façade  of  the  mysterious  house.  From  this  point  of 
view,  the  dilapidation  was  still  more  apparent.  Huge 
cracks  had  riven  the  walls  of  the  main  body  of  the 
house  built  round  three  sides  of  a  square.  Evidently 
the  place  was  allowed  to  fall  to  ruin  ;  there  were  holes 
in  the  roof,  broken  slates  and  tiles  lay  about  below. 
Fallen  fruit  from  the  orchard  trees  was  left  to  rot  on 
the  ground  j  a  cow  was  grazing  over  the  bowling-green 
and  trampling  the  flowers  in  the  garden  beds  ;  a  goat 
browsed  on  the  green  grapes  and  young  vine-shoots  on 
the  trellis. 

*  It  is  all  of  a  piece,'  remarked  the  Colonel.  *  The 
neglect  is  in  a  fashion  systematic'  He  laid  his  hand 
on  the  chain  of  the  bell-pull,  but  the  bell  had  lost  its 
clapper.  The  two  friends  heard  no  sound  save  the 
peculiar  grating  creak  of  the  rusty  spring.  A  little 
door  in  the  wall  beside  the  gateway,  though  ruin- 
ous, held  good  against  all  their  efforts  to  force  it 
open. 

*  Oho  !  all  this  is  growing  very  interesting,'  Philip  said 
to  his  companion. 


2o6  Farewell 

*  If  I  were  not  a  magistrate,'  returned  M.  d'Albon,  *  I 
should  think  that  the  woman  in  black  is  a  witch.' 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when  the 
cow  came  up  to  the  railings  and  held  out  her  warm 
damp  nose,  as  if  she  were  glad  of  human  society.  Then 
a  woman,  if  so  indescribable  a  being  could  be  called  a 
woman,  sprang  up  from  the  bushes,  and  pulled  at  the 
cord  about  the  cow's  neck.  From  beneath  the  crimson 
handkerchief  about  the  woman's  head,  fair  matted  hair 
escaped,  something  as  tow  hangs  about  a  spindle.  She 
wore  no  kerchief  at  the  throat.  A  coarse  black-and-grey 
striped  woollen  petticoat,  too  short  by  several  inches,  left 
her  legs  bare.  She  might  have  belonged  to  some  tribe 
of  Redskins  in  Fenimore  Cooper's  novels  ;  for  her  neck, 
arms,  and  ankles  looked  as  if  they  had  been  painted  brick- 
red.  There  was  no  spark  of  intelligence  in  her  featureless 
face  ;  her  pale,  bluish  eyes  looked  out  dull  and  expression- 
less from  beneath  the  eyebrows  with  one  or  two  straggling 
white  hairs  on  them.  Her  teeth  were  prominent  and 
uneven,  but  white  as  a  dog's. 

*  Hallo,  good  woman,'  called  M.  de  Sucy. 

She  came  slowly  up  to  the  railing,  and  stared  at  the 
two  sportsmen  with  a  contorted  smile  painful  to  see. 

*  Where  are  we  ?  What  is  the  name  of  the  house 
yonder  ?  Whom  does  it  belong  to  ?  Who  are  you  ? 
Do  you  come  from  hereabouts  ?  ' 

To  these  questions,  and  to  a  host  of  others  poured  out 
in  succession  upon  her  by  the  two  friends,  she  made  no 
answer  save  gurgling  noises  in  the  throat,  more  like 
animal  sounds  than  anything  uttered  by  a  human  voice. 

*  Don't  you  see  that  she  is  deaf  and  dumb  ?  '  said  M. 
d'AIbon. 

*  Minorites  !  '  the  peasant  woman  said  at  last. 

*  Ah  !  she  is  right.  The  house  looks  as  though  it 
might  once  have  been  a  Minorite  convent,'  he  went  on. 

Again  they  plied  the  peasant  woman  with  questions, 
but,  like  a  wayward  child,  she  coloured  up,  fidgeted  with 


Farewell  207 

her  sabot.^  twisted  the  rope  by  which  she  held  the  cow 
that  had  fallen  to  grazing  again,  stared  at  the  sportsmen, 
and  scrutinised  every  article  of  clothing  upon  them  ;  she 
gibbered,  grunted,  and  clucked,  but  no  articulate  word 
did  she  utter. 

Your  name  ?  '  asked  Philip,  fixing  her  with  his  eyes 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  bewitch  the  woman. 

*  Geneviève,'  she  answered,  with  an  empty  laugh. 

*  The  cow  is  the  most  intelligent  creature  we  have 
seen  so  far,'  exclaimed  the  magistrate.  '  I  shall  fire  a 
shot,  that  ought  to  bring  somebody  out.' 

D'Albon  had  just  taken  up  his  rifle  when  the  Colonel 

put   out   a    hand    to   stop   him,   and    pointed    out   the 

mysterious  woman  who  had  aroused  such  lively  curiosity 

in  them.     She  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  deep  thought, 

as  she  went  along   a   green  alley  some    little   distance 

away,  so  slowly  that  the  friends  had  time  to  take  a  good 

look  at  her.     She  wore  a  threadbare  black  satin  gown, 

her  long  hair  curled  thickly  over  her  forehead,  and  fell 

ike   a   shawl   about    her    shoulders    below    her   waist. 

oubtless  she  was  accustomed  to  the  dishevelment  of  her 

ocks,  for  she  seldom  put  back  the  hair  on  either  side  of 

er  brows  ;  but  when  she  did  so,  she  shook  her  head  with 

sudden  jerk  that  had  not  to  be  repeated  to  shake  away 

he  thick  veil   from   her  eyes   or   forehead.     In  every- 

hing  that  she   did,  moreover,  there  was  a   wonderful 

ertainty  in  the  working  of  the  mechanism,  an  unerring 

iwiftness  and  precision,  like  that  of  an  animal,  well  nigh 

arvellous  in  a  woman. 

The  two  sportsmen  were  amazed  to  see  her  spring  up 
nto  an  apple-tree  and  cling  to  a  bough  lightly  as  a  bird, 
he  snatched  at  the  fruit,  ate  it,  and  dropped  to  the 
rround  with  the  same  supple  grace  that  charms  us  in  a 
quirrel.  The  elasticity  of  her  limbs  took  all  appear- 
nce  of  awkwardness  or  effort  from  her  movements. 
Ihe  played  about  upon  the  grass,  rolling  in  it  as  a  young 
hild  might  have  done  ;  then,  on  a  sudden,  she  lay  still 


2o8  Farewell 

and  stretched  out  her  feet  and  hands,  with  the  languid 
natural  grace  of  a  kitten  dozing  in  the  sun. 

There  was  a  threatening  growl  of  thunder  far  away, 
and  at  this  she  started  up  on  all  fours  and  listened,  like 
a  dog  who  hears  a  strange  footstep.  One  result  of  this 
strange  attitude  was  to  separate  her  thick  black  hair  into 
two  masses,  that  fell  away  on  either  side  of  her  face  and 
left  her  shoulders  bare;  the  two  witnesses  of  this  singular 
scene  wondered  at  the  whiteness  of  the  skin  that  shone 
like  a  meadow  daisy,  and  at  the  neck  that  indicated  the 
perfection  of  the  rest  of  her  form. 

A  wailing  cry  broke  from  her  ;  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  stood  upright.  Every  successive  movement  was 
made  so  lightly,  so  gracefully,  so  easily,  that  she  seemed 
to  be  no  human  being,  but  one  of  Ossian's  maids  of  the 
mist.  She  went  across  the  grass  to  one  of  the  pools  of 
water,  deftly  shook  off  her  shoe,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 
dipping  her  foot,  white  as  marble,  in  the  spring  ;  doubt- 
less it  pleased  her  to  make  the  circling  ripples,  and 
watch  them  glitter  like  gems.  She  knelt  down  by  the 
brink,  and  played  there  like  a  child,  dabbling  her  long 
tresses  in  the  water,  and  flinging  them  loose  again  to  see 
the  water  drip  from  the  ends,  like  a  string  of  pearls  in 
the  sunless  light. 

'  She  is  mad  !  '  cried  the  Councillor. 

A  hoarse  cry  rang  through  the  air  ;  it  came  from 
Geneviève,  and  seemed  to  be  meant  for  the  mysterious 
woman.  She  rose  to  her  feet  in  a  moment,  flinging 
back  the  hair  from  her  face,  and  then  the  Colonel  and 
d'Albon  could  see  her  features  distinctly.  As  soon  as 
she  saw  the  two  friends  she  bounded  to  the  railings  with 
the  swiftness  of  a  fawn. 

^  Farewell  !  ^  she  said  in  low,  musical  tones,  but  they 
could  not  discover  the  least  trace  of  feeling,  the  least  idea 
in  the  sweet  sounds  that  they  had  awaited  impatiently. 

M.  d'Albon  admired  the  long  lashes,  the  thick,  dark 
eyebrows,  the  dazzling  fairness  of  a  skin  untinged  by  any 


Farewell  209 

trace  of  red.  Only  the  delicate  blue  veins  contrasted 
with  that  uniform  whiteness. 

But  when  the  Marquis  turned  to  communicate  his 
surprise  at  the  sight  of  so  strange  an  apparition,  he  saw 
the  Colonel  stretched  on  the  grass  like  one  dead.  M. 
d'Albon  fired  his  gun  into  the  air,  shouted  for  help,  and 
tried  to  raise  his  friend.  At  the  sound  of  the  shot,  the 
strange  lady,  who  had  stood  motionless  by  the  gate,  fled 
away,  crying  out  like  a  wounded  wild  creature,  circling 
round  and  round  in  the  meadow,  with  every  sign  of 
unspeakable  terror. 

M.  d'Albon  heard  a  carriage  rolling  along  the  road  to 
I'Isle  Adam,  and  waved  his  handkerchief  to  implore  help. 
The  carriage  immediately  came  towards  the  Minorite 
convent,  and  M.  d'Albon  recognised  neighbours,  M.  de 
and  Mme.  de  Grandville,  who  hastened  to  alight  and  put 
their  carriage  at  his  disposal.  Colonel  de  Sucy  inhaled 
the  salts  which  Mme.  de  Grandville  happened  to  have 
with  her  ;  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  towards  the 
mysterious  figure  that  still  fled  wailing  through  the 
meadow,  and  a  faint  cry  of  horror  broke  from  him  ;  he 
closed  his  eyes  again,  with  a  dumb  gesture  of  entreaty 
to  his  friends  to  take  him  away  from  this  scene.  M.  and 
Mme.  de  Grandville  begged  the  Councillor  to  make  use 
of  their  carriage,  adding  very  obligingly  that  they  them- 
selves would  walk. 

'  Who  can  the  lady  be  ?  '  inquired  the  magistrate, 
looking  towards  the  strange  figure. 

'  People  think  that  she  comes  from  Moulins,'  answered 
M.  de  Grandville.  'She  is  a  Comtesse  de  Vandières; 
she  is  said  to  be  mad  ;  but  as  she  has  only  been  here  for 
two  months,  I  cannot  vouch  for  the  truth  of  all  this 
hearsay  talk.' 

M.  d'Albon  thanked  M.  and  Mme.  de  Grandville,  and 
hey  set  out  for  Cassan. 

'  It  is  she  !  '  cried  Philip,  coming  to  himself. 

'She?  who? 'asked  d'Albon. 


2 1  o  Farewell 

*  Stéphanie.  .  .  .  Ah!  dead  and  yet  living  stiil  ;  still 
alive,  but  her  mind  is  gone  !  I  thought  the  sight  would 
kill  me.' 

The  prudent  magistrate,  recognising  the  gravity  of  the 
crisis  through  which  his  friend  was  passing,  refrained 
from  asking  questions  or  exciting  him  further,  and  grew 
impatient  of  the  length  of  the  way  to  the  château,  for 
the  change  wrought  in  the  Colonel's  face  alarmed  him. 
He  feared  lest  the  Countess's  terrible  disease  had  communi- 
cated itself  to  Philip's  brain.  When  they  reached  the 
avenue  at  I'lsle-Adam,  d'Albon  sent  the  servant  for  the 
local  doctor,  so  that  the  Colonel  had  scarcely  been  laid 
in  bed  before  the  surgeon  was  beside  him. 

'If  Monsieur  le  Colonel  had  not  been  fasting,  the 
shock  must  have  killed  him,'  pronounced  the  leech.  '  He 
was  overtired,  and  that  saved  him,'  and  with  a  few  direc- 
tions as  to  the  patient's  treatment,  he  went  to  prepare  a 
composing  draught  himself.  M.  de  Sucy  was  better  the 
next  morning,  but  the  doctor  had  insisted  on  sitting  up 
all  night  with  him. 

*  I  confess.  Monsieur  le  Marquis,'  the  surgeon  said, 
*  that  I  feared  for  the  brain.  M.  de  Sucy  has  had  some 
very  violent  shock  j  he  is  a  man  of  strong  passions,  but, 
with  his  temperament,  the  first  shock  decides  everything. 
He  will  very  likely  be  out  of  danger  to-morrow.' 

The  doctor  was  perfectly  right.  The  next  day  the 
patient  was  allowed  to  see  his  friend. 

*  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  dear  d'Albon,' 
Philip  said,  grasping  his  friend's  hand.  '  Hasten  at  once 
to  the  Minorite  convent,  find  out  everything  about  the 
lady  whom  we  saw  there,  and  come  back  as  soon  as 
you  can  j  I  shall  count  the  minutes  till  I  see  you 
again.' 

M.  d'Albon  called  for  his  horse,  and  galloped  over  to 
the  old  monastery.  When  he  reached  the  gateway  he 
found  some  one  standing  there,  a  tall,  spare  man  with  a 
kindly  face,  who  answered  in  the  affirmative  when   he 


Farewell  211 

was  asked  if  he  lived  in  the  ruined  house.     M.  d'Albon 
explained  his  errand. 

'  Why,  then,  it  must  have  been  you,  sir,  who  fired  that 
unlucky  shot  !     You  all  but  killed  my  poor  invalid.' 

*  Eh  !  I  fired  into  the  air  !  ' 
^If  you  had  actually  hit  Madame  la  Comtesse,  you 

would  have  done  less  harm  to  her.' 

*  Well,  well,  then,  we  can  neither  of  us  complain,  for 
the  sight  of  the  Countess  all  but  killed  my  friend,  M.  de 
Sucy.' 

'  The  Baron  de  Sucy,  is  it  possible  ?  '  cried  the  doctor, 
clasping  his  hands.  *  Has  he  been  in  Russia  ?  was  he  in 
the  Beresina  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  answered  d'Albon.  *  He  was  taken  prisoner  by 
:he  Cossacks  and  sent  to  Siberia.  He  has  not  been  back 
n  this  country  a  twelvemonth.' 

'  Come  in.  Monsieur,'  said  the  other,  and  he  led  the  way 
to  a  drawing-room  on  the  ground-floor.  Everything  in 
the  room  showed  signs  of  capricious  destruction. 

Valuable  china  jars  lay  in  fragments  on  either  side  of 
I  clock  beneath  a  glass  shade,  which  had  escaped.  The 
ilk  hangings  about  the  windows  were  torn  to  rags,  while 
:he  muslin  curtains  were  untouched. 

*  You  see  about  you  the  havoc  wrought  by  a  charming 
)eing  to  whom  I  have  dedicated  my  life.  She  is  my 
liece  ;  and  though  medical  science  is  powerless  in  her 
ase,  I  hope  to  restore  her  to  reason,  though  the  method 
^^hich  I  am  trying  is,  unluckily,  only  possible  to  the 
v^ealthy.' 

Then,  like  all  who  live  much  alone  and  daily  bear  the 
urden  of  a  heavy  trouble,  he  fell  to  talk  with  the 
lagistrater.  This  is  the  story  that  he  told,  set  in  order, 
iid  with  the  many  digressions  made  by  both  teller  and 
earer  omitted. 

When,  at  nine  o'clock  at  night,  on  the  28th  of 
November  181 2,  Marshal  Victor  abandoned  the  heights 


212  Farewell 

of  Studzianka,  which  he  had  held  through  the  day,  he  left 
a  thousand  men  behind  with  instructions  to  protect,  till 
the  last  possible  moment,  the  two  pontoon  bridges  over 
the  Beresina  that  still  held  good.  This  rearguard  was 
to  save  if  possible  an  appalling  number  of  stragglers,  so 
numbed  with  the  cold,  that  they  obstinately  refused 
to  leave  the  baggage- waggons.  The  heroism  of  the 
generous  band  was  doomed  to  fail  ;  for,  unluckily,  the 
men  who  poured  down  to  the  eastern  bank  of  the 
Beresina  found  carriages,  caissons,  and  all  kinds  of  pro- 
perty which  the  Army  had  been  forced  to  abandon  during 
its  passage  on  the  27th  and  28th  days  of  November. 
The  poor,  half-frozen  wretches,  sunk  almost  to  the  level 
of  brutes,  finding  such  unhoped-for  riches,  bivouacked  in 
the  deserted  space,  laid  hands  on  the  military  stores, 
improvised  huts  out  of  the  material,  lighted  fires  with 
anything  that  would  burn,  cut  up  the  carcases  of  the 
horses  for  food,  tore  out  the  linings  of  the  carriages, 
wrapped  themselves  in  them,  and  lay  down  to  sleep, 
instead  of  crossing  the  Beresina  in  peace  under  cover  of 
night — the  Beresina  that  even  then  had  proved,  by  an 
incredible  fatality,  so  disastrous  to  the  Army.  Such 
apathy  on  the  part  of  the  poor  fellows  can  only  be  under- 
stood by  those  who  remember  tramping  across  those 
vast  deserts  of  snow,  with  nothing  to  quench  their  thirst 
but  snow,  snow  for  their  bed,  snow  as  far  as  the  horizon 
on  every  side,  and  no  food  but  snow,  a  little  frozen 
beetroot,  horseflesh,  or  a  handful  of  meal. 

The  miserable  creatures  were  dropping  down,  over- 
come by  hunger,  thirst,  weariness,  and  sleep,  when  they 
reached  the  shores  of  the  Beresina  and  found  fuel  and  fire 
and  victuals,  countless  waggons  and  tents,  a  whole  im- 
provised town,  in  short.  The  whole  village  of  Stud- 
zianka had  been  removed  piecemeal  from  the  heights  to 
the  plain,  and  the  very  perils  and  miseries  of  this 
dangerous  and  doleful  habitation  smiled  invitingly  to  the 
wayfarers,  who  beheld   no  prospect  beyond  it  but  the 


Farewell  2 1  j 

awful   Russian  deserts.     A  huge  hospice,  in  short,  was 
rected  for  twenty  hours  of  existence.    Only  one  thought 
— the  thought  of  rest — appealed  to  men  weary  of  life  or 
rejoicing  in  unlooked-for  comfort. 

They  lay  right  in  the  line  of  fire  from  the  cannon  of 

he  Russian  left;  but  to  that  vast  mass  of  human  creatures, 

patch    upon    the   snow,   sometimes   dark,   sometimes 

creaking  into  flame,  the  indefatigable  grape-shot  was  but 

Dne  discomfort  the  more.    For  them  it  was  only  a  storm, 

md   they  paid   the  less  attention  to  the  bolts  that   fell 

imong   them   because  there  were  none   to  strike  down 

here  save  dying  men,  the  wounded,  or  perhaps  the  dead. 

tragglers   came    up    in    little  bands  at  every  moment. 

These  walking  corpses  instantly  separated,  and  wandered 

jegging  from   fire  to  fire  ;  and   meeting,  for   the  most 

lart,  with   refusals,  banded   themselves   together  again, 

nd  took  by  force  what  they  could  not  otherwise  obtain. 

They  were  deaf  to  the  voices  of  their  officers  prophesy- 

ng  death  on  the  morrow,  and  spent  the  energy  required 

o  cross  the  swamp  in  building  shelters  for  the  night  and 

reparing  a  meal  that  often  proved  fatal.     The  coming 

eath  no  longer  seemed  an  evil,  for  it  gave  them  an  hour 

f  slumber  before  it  came.      Hunger  and  thirst  and  cold 

—these  were  evils,  but  not  death. 

At  last  wood  and  fuel  and  canvas  and  shelters  failed, 
nd  hideous  brawls  began  between  destitute  late  comers 
nd  the  rich  already  in  possession  of  a  lodging.  The 
eaker  were  driven  away,  until  a  few  last  fugitives  before 
le  Russian  advance  were  obliged  to  make  their  bed  in 
le  snow,  and  lay  down  to  rise  no  more. 
Little  by  little  the  mass  of  half-dead  humanity  became 
dense,  so  deaf,  so  torpid, — or  perhaps  it  should  be  said 
happy — that  Marshal  Victor,  their  heroic  defender 
ainst  twenty  thousand  Russians  under  Wittgenstein, 
as  actually  compelled  to  cut  his  way  by  force  through 
is  forest  of  men,  so  as  to  cross  the  Beresina  with  the  five 
ousand  heroes  whom  he  was  leading  to  the  Emperor. 


214  Farewell 

The  miserable  creatures  preferred  to  be  trampled  and 
crushed  to  death  rather  than  stir  from  their  places,  and  died 
without  a  sound,  smiling  at  the  dead  ashes  of  their  fires, 
forgetful  of  P  ranee. 

Not  before  ten  o'clock  that  night  did  the  Due  de 
Belluno  reach  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Before  com- 
mitting his  men  to  the  pontoon  bridges  that  led  to 
Zembin,  he  left  the  fate  of  the  rearguard  at  Studzianka  in 
Eblé's  hands,  and  to  Eblé  the  survivors  of  the  calamities 
of  the  Beresina  ovi^ed  their  lives. 

About  midnight,  the  great  General,  followed  by  a 
courageous  officer,  came  out  of  his  little  hut  by  the 
bridge,  and  gazed  at  the  spectacle  of  this  camp  between  the 
bank  of  the  Beresina  and  the  Borizof  road  to  Studzianka. 
The  thunder  of  the  Russian  cannonade  had  ceased. 
Here  and  there  faces  that  had  nothing  human  about  them 
were  lighted  up  by  countless  fires  that  seemed  to  grow 
pale  in  the  glare  of  the  snowfields,  and  to  give  no  light. 
Nearly  thirty  thousand  wretches,  belonging  to  every 
nation  that  Napoleon  had  hurled  upon  Russia,  lay  there 
hazarding  their  lives  with  the  indifference  of  brute 
beasts. 

'  We  have  all  these  to  save,'  the  General  said  to  his 
subordinate.  *  To-morrow  morning  the  Russians  will 
be  in  Studzianka.  The  moment  they  come  up  we  shall 
have  to  set  fire  to  the  bridge  ;  so  pluck  up  heart,  my 
boy  !  Make  your  way  out  and  up  yonder  through  them 
and  tell  General  Fourni er  that  he  has  barely  time  to 
evacuate  his  post  and  cut  his  way  through  to  the  bridge. 
As  soon  as  you  have  seen  him  set  out,  follow  him  down, 
take  some  able-bodied  men,  and  set  fire  to  the  tents, 
waggons,  caissons,  carriages,  anything  and  everything, 
without  pity,  and  drive  these  fellows  on  to  the  bridge. 
Compel  everything  that  walks  on  two  legs  to  take 
refuge  on  the  other  bank.  We  must  set  fire  to  the 
camp  ;  it  is  our  last  resource.  If  Berthier  had  let  me 
burn  those  d d  waggons  sooner,  no  lives  need  have 


Farewell  215 

been  lost  in  the  river  except  my  poor  pontooners,  my 
fifty  heroes,  who  saved  the  Army,  and  will  be  for- 
gotten.' 

The  General  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and 
said  no  more.  He  felt  that  Poland  would  be  his  tomb, 
and  foresaw  that  afterwards  no  voice  would  be  raised  to 
speak  for  the  noble  fellows  who  had  plunged  into  the 
stream— into  the  waters  of  the  Beresina!  — to  drive  in 
the  piles  for  the  bridges.  And,  indeed,  only  one  of  them 
is  living  now,  or,  to  be  more  accurate,  starving,  utterly 
forgotten  in  a  country  village  !  The  brave  officer  had 
scarcely  gone  a  hundred  paces  towards  Studzianka,  when 
General  Eblé  roused  some  of  his  patient  pontooners, 
and  began  his  work  of  mercy  by  setting  fire  to  the 
camp  on  the  side  nearest  the  bridge,  so  compelling  the 
sleepers  to  rise  and  cross  the  Beresina.  Meanwhile  the 
young  aide-de-camp,  not  without  difficulty,  reached  the 
one  wooden  house  yet  left  standing  in  Studzianka. 

*  So  the  box  is  pretty  full,  is  it,  messmate  ?  '  he  said  to 
a  man  whom  he  found  outside. 

'  You  will  be  a  knowing  fellow  if  you  manage  to  get 
inside,'  the  officer  returned,  without  turning  round  or 
stopping  his  occupation  of  hacking  at  the  woodwork  of 
the  house  with  his  sabre. 

*  Philip,  is  that  you  ?  '  cried  the  aide-de-camp,  recog- 
nising the  voice  of  one  of  his  friends. 

'Yes.  Aha  !  is  it  you,  old  fellow  ?'  returned  M.  de 
Sucy,  looking  round  at  the  aide-de-camp,  who  like  him- 
self was  not  more  than  twenty-three  years  old.  '  I 
fancied  you  were  on  the  other  side  of  this  confounded 
river.  Do  you  come  to  bring  us  sweetmeats  for 
dessert  ?  You  will  get  a  warm  welcome,'  he  added,  as 
he  tore  away  a  strip  of  bark  from  the  wood  and  gave  it 
to  his  horse  by  way  of  fodder. 

'  I  am  looking  for  your  Commandant.  General  Eblé 
has  sent  me  to  tell  him  to  file  off  to  Zembin.  You 
have  only  just  time  to  cut  your  way  through  that  mass 


2 1 6  Farewell 

of  dead  men  ;  as  soon  as  you  get  through,  I  am  going  to 

set  fire  to  the  place  to  make  them  move ' 

'  You  almost  make  me  feel  warm  !  Your  news  has 
put  me  in  a  fever  ;  I  have  two  friends  to  bring  through. 
Ah  !  but  for  those  marmots,  I  should  have  been  dead 
before  now,  old  fellow.  On  their  account  I  am  taking 
care  of  my  horse  instead  of  eating  him.  But  have  you 
a  crust  about  you,  for  pity's  sake  ?  It  is  thirty  hours 
since  I  have  stowed  any  victuals.  I  have  been  fighting 
like  a  madman  to  keep  up  a  little  warmth  in  my  body 
and  what  courage  I  have  left.' 

*  Poor  Philip  !  I  have  nothing — not  a  scrap  ! — But  is 
your  General  in  there  ?  ' 

*  Don't  attempt  to  go  in.  The  barn  is  full  of  our 
wounded.  Go  up  a  bit  higher,  and  you  will  see  a  sort 
of  pigsty  to  the  right — that  is  where  the  General  is. 
Good-bye,  my  dear  fellow.  If  ever  we  meet  again  in  a 
quadrille  in  a  ballroom  in  Paris ' 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  the  treachery  of 
the  north-east  wind  that  whistled  about  them  froze 
Major  Philip's  lips,  and  the  aide-de-camp  kept  moving 
for  fear  of  being  frost-bitten.  Silence  soon  prevailed, 
scarcely  broken  by  the  groans  of  the  wounded  in  the 
barn,  or  the  stifled  sounds  made  by  M.  de  Sucy's  horse 
crunching  the  frozen  bark  with  famished  eagerness. 
Philip  thrust  '  his  sabre  into  the  sheath,  caught  at  the 
bridle  of  the  precious  animal  that  he  had  managed  to 
keep  for  so  long,  and  drew  her  away  from  the  miserable 
fodder  that  she  was  bolting  with  apparent  relish. 

'  Come  along,  Bichette  !  come  along  !  It  hes  with 
you  now,  my  beauty,  to  save  Stephanie's  life.  There, 
wait  a  little  longer,  and  they  will  let  us  lie  down  and  die, 
no  doubt  ;'  and  Philip,  wrapped  in  a  pelisse,  to  which 
doubtless  he  owed  his  life  and  energies,  began  to  run, 
stamping  his  feet  on  the  frozen  snow  to  keep  them 
warm.  He  was  scarce  five  hundred  paces  away  before 
he  saw  a  great  fire  blazing  on  the  spot  where  he  had  left 


Farewell  217 

his  carnage  that  morning  with  an  old  soldier  to  guard 
it,  A  dreadful  misgiving  seized  upon  him.  Many  a 
man  under  the  influence  of  a  powerful  feeling  during  the 
Retreat  summoned  up  energy  for  his  friend's  sake  when 
he  would  not  have  exerted  himself  to  save  his  own  life  ; 
so  it  was  with  Philip.  He  soon  neared  a  hollow,  where 
he  had  left  a  carriage  sheltered  from  the  cannonade,  a 
carriage  that  held  a  young  woman,  his  playmate  in  child- 
hood, dearer  to  him  than  any  one  else  on  earth. 

Some  thirty  stragglers  were  sitting  round  a  tremen- 
dous blaze,  which  they  kept  up  with  logs  of  wood,  planks 
wrenched  from  the  floors  of  the  caissons,  and  wheels, 
and  panels  from  carriage  bodies.  These  had  been, 
doubtless,  among  the  last  to  join  the  sea  of  fires,  huts, 
and  human  faces  that  filled  the  great  furrow  in  the  land 
between  Studzianka  and  the  fatal  river,  a  restless  living 
sea  of  almost  imperceptibly  moving  figures,  that  sent  up 
a  smothered  hum  of  sound  blended  with  frightful  shrieks. 
It  seemed  that  hunger  and  despair  had  driven  these  for- 
lorn creatures  to  take  forcible  possession  of  the  carriage, 
for  the  old  General  and  his  young  wife,  whom  they  had 
found  warmly  wrapped  in  pelisses  and  travelling  cloaks, 
were  now  crouching  on  the  earth  beside  the  fire,  and 
one  of  the  carriage  doors  was  broken. 

As  soon  as  the  group  of  stragglers  round  the  fire 
heard  the  footfall  of  the  Major's  horse,  a  frenzied  yell 
of  hunger  went  up  from  them.  '  A  horse  !  '  they  cried. 
'  A  horse  !  ' 

All  the  voices  went  up  as  one  voice. 

'  Back  !  back  !  Look  out  !  '  shouted  two  or  three  of 
them,  levelling  their  muskets  at  the  animal. 

'  I  will  pitch  you  neck  and  crop  into  your  fire,  you 
blackguards  !  '  cried  Philip,  springing  in  front  of  the 
mare.  '  There  are  dead  horses  lying  up  yonder  j  go 
and  look  for  them  !  ' 

'  What  a  rum  customer  the  officer  is  ! — Once,  twice, 
will    you    get    out    of    the    way  ?  '    returned    a   giant 


2 1 8  Farewell 

grenadier.  *  You  won't  ?  All  right  then,  just  as  you 
please.' 

A  woman's  shriek  rang  out  above  the  report.  Luckily, 
none  of  the  bullets  hit  Philip  ;  but  poor  Bichette  lay  in 
the  agony  of  death.  Three  of  the  men  came  up  and  put 
an  end  to  her  with  thrusts  of  the  bayonet. 

*  Cannibals  !  leave  me  the  rug  and  my  pistols,'  cried 
Philip  in  desperation. 

'  Oh  !  the  pistols  if  you  Hke  ;  but  as  for  the  rug,  there 
is  a  fellow  yonder  who  has  had  nothing  to  wet  his 
whistle  these  two  days,  and  is  shivering  in  his  coat  of 
cobwebs,  and  that 's  our  General.' 

Philip  looked  up  and  saw  a  man  with  worn-out  shoes 
and  a  dozen  rents  in  his  trousers  j  the  only  covering  for 
his  head  was  a  ragged  foraging  cap,  white  with  rime. 
He  said  no  more  after  that,  but  snatched  up  his  pistols. 

Five  of  the  men  dragged  the  mare  to  the  fire,  and 
began  to  cut  up  the  carcase  as  dexterously  as  any 
journeymen  butchers  in  Paris.  The  scraps  of  meat 
were  distributed  and  flung  upon  the  coals,  and  the  whole 
process  was  magically  swift.  Philip  went  over  to  the 
woman  who  had  given  the  cry  of  terror  when  she  recog- 
nised his  danger,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  She  sat 
motionless  upon  a  cushion  taken  from  the  carriage, 
warming  herself  at  the  blaze  }  she  said  no  word,  and 
gazed  at  him  without  a  smile.  He  saw  beside  her  the 
soldier  whom  he  had  left  mounting  guard  over  the  car- 
riage ;  the  poor  fellow  had  been  wounded  ;  he  had  been 
overpowered  by  numbers,  and  forced  to  surrender  to  the 
stragglers  who  had  set  upon  him,  and,  Hke  a  dog  who 
defends  his  master's  dinner  till  the  last  moment,  he  had 
taken  his  share  of  the  spoil,  and  had  made  a  sort  of  cloak 
for  himself  out  of  a  sheet.  At  that  particular  moment 
he  was  busy  toasting  a  piece  of  horseflesh,  and  in  his 
face  the  major  saw  a  gleeful  anticipation  of  the  coming 
feast. 

The  Comte  de  Vandières,  who  seemed  to  have  grown 


Farewell  219 

quite  childish  in  the  last  few  days,  sat  on  a  cushion  close 
to  his  wife,  and  stared  into  the  fire.  He  was  only  just 
beginning  to  shake  off  his  torpor  under  the  influence  of 
the  warmth.  He  had  been  no  more  affected  by  Philip's 
arrival  and  danger  than  by  the  fight  and  subsequent 
pillage  of  his  travelling  carriage. 

At  first  Sucy  caught  the  young  Countess's  hand  in  his, 
trying  to  express  his  affection  for  her,  and  the  pain  that 
it  gave  him  to  see  her  reduced  like  this  to  the  last 
extremity  of  misery  ;  but  he  said  nothing  as  he  sat  by 
her  side  on  the  thawing  heap  of  snow,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  pleasure  of  the  sensation  of  warmth,  forgetful 
of  danger,  forgetful  of  all  things  else  in  the  world.  In 
spite  of  himself  his  face  expanded  with  an  almost  fatuous 
expression  of  satisfaction,  and  he  waited  impatiently  till 
the  scrap  of  horseflesh  that  had  fallen  to  his  soldier's 
share  should  be  cooked.  The  smell  of  the  charred 
flesh  stimulated  his  hunger.  Hunger  clamoured  within 
him  and  silenced  his  heart,  his  courage,  and  his  love. 
He  coolly  looked  round  on  the  results  of  the  spolia- 
tion of  his  carriage.  Not  a  man  seated  round  the  fire 
but  had  shared  the  booty,  the  rugs,  cushions,  pelisses, 
dresses, — articles  of  clothing  that  belonged  to  the  Count 
and  Countess  or  to  himself.  Philip  turned  to  see 
if  anything  worth  taking  was  left  in  the  berline.  He 
saw  by  the  light  of  the  flames,  gold,  and  diamonds,  and 
silver  lying  scattered  about  ;  no  one  had  cared  to 
appropriate  the  least  particle.  There  was  something 
hideous  in  the  silence  among  those  human  creatures 
round  the  fire  ;  none  of  them  spoke,  none  of  them 
stirred,  save  to  do  such  things  as  each  considered 
necessary  for  his  own  comfort. 

It  was  a  grotesque  misery.  The  men's  faces  were 
warped  and  disfigured  with  the  cold,  and  plastered  over 
with  a  layer  of  mud  ;  you  could  see  the  thickness  of  the 
mask  by  the  channel  traced  down  their  cheeks  by  the 
tears  that  ran  from  their  eyes,  and  their  long  slovenly 


220  Farewell 

kept  beards  added  to  the  hideousness  of  their  appearance. 
Some  were  wrapped  round  in  women's  shawls,  others  in 
horse-cloths,  dirty  blankets,  rags  stiffened  with  melting 
hoar-frost  ;  here  and  there  a  man  wore  a  boot  on  one 
foot  and  a  shoe  on  the  other,  in  fact,  there  was  not  one 
of  them  but  wore  some  ludicrously  odd  costume.  But 
the  men  themselves  with  such  matter  for  jest  about  them 
were  gloomy  and  taciturn. 

The  silence  was  unbroken  save  by  the  crackling  of 
the  wood,  the  roaring  of  the  flames,  the  far-off  hum  of 
the  camp,  and  the  sound  of  sabres  hacking  at  the  carcass 
of  the  mare.  Some  of  the  hungriest  of  the  men  were 
still  cutting  tit-bits  for  themselves.  A  few  miserable 
creatures,  more  weary  than  the  others,  slept  outright  ; 
and  if  they  happened  to  roll  into  the  fire,  no  one  pulled 
them  back.  With  cut-and-dried  logic  their  fellows 
argued  that  if  they  were  not  dead,  a  scorching  ought 
to  be  sufficient  warning  to  quit  and  seek  out  more 
comfortable  quarters.  If  the  poor  wretch  woke  to  find 
himself  on  fire,  he  was  burned  to  death,  and  nobody  pitied 
him.  Here  and  there  the  men  exchanged  glances,  as  if 
to  excuse  their  indifference  by  the  carelessness  of  the 
rest  ;  the  thing  happened  twice  under  the  young 
Countess's  eyes,  and  she  uttered  no  sound.  When  all 
the  scraps  of  horse-flesh  had  been  broiled  upon  the  coals, 
they  were  devoured  with  a  ravenous  greediness  that 
would  have  been  disgusting  in  wild  beasts. 

'  And  now  we  have  seen  thirty  infantry-men  on  one 
horse  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives  !  '  cried  the  grenadier 
who  had  shot  the  mare,  the  one  solitary  joke  that 
sustained,  the  Frenchmen's  reputation  for  wit. 

Before  long  the  poor  fellows  huddled  themselves  up 
in  their  clothes,  and  lay  down  on  planks  of  timber,  on 
anything  but  the  bare  snow,  and  slept — heedless  of  the 
morrow.  Major  de  Sucy  having  warmed  himself  and 
satisfied  his  hunger,  fought  in  vain  against  the  drowsi- 
ness that   weighed   upon   his   eyes.      During   this  brief 


Farewell  22 1 

struggle  he  gazed  at  the  sleeping  girl  who  had  turned 
her  face  to  the  fire,  so  that  he  could  see  her  closed  eye- 
lids and  part  of  her  forehead.  She  was  wrapped  round 
in  a  furred  pelisse  and  a  coarse  horseman's  cloak,  her 
head  lay  on  a  blood-stained  cushion  ;  a  tall  astrakhan  cap 
tied  over  her  head  by  a  handkerchief  knotted  under  the 
chin  protected  her  face  as  much  as  possible  from  the 
cold,  and  she  had  tucked  up  her  feet  in  the  cloak.  As 
she  lay  curled  up  in  this  fashion,  she  bore  no  likeness  to 
any  creature. 

Was  this  the  lowest  of  camp-followers  ?  Was  this  the 
charming  woman,  the  pride  of  her  lover's  heart,  the 
queen  of  many  a  Parisian  ballroom  ?  Alas  !  even  for 
the  eyes  of  this  most  devoted  friend,  there  was  no  dis- 
cernible trace  of  womanhood  in  that  bundle  of  rags  and 
linen,  and  the  cold  was  mightier  than  the  love  in  a 
woman's  heart. 

Then  for  the  major  the  husband  and  wife  came 
to  be  like  two  distant  dots  seen  through  the  thick  veil 
that  the  most  irresistible  kind  of  slumber  spread  over  his 
eyes.  It  all  seemed  to  be  part  of  a  dream — the  leaping 
flames,  the  recumbent  figures,  the  awful  cold  that  lay  in 
wait  for  them  three  paces  away  from  the  warmth  of  the 
fire  that  glowed  for  a  Httle  while.  One  thought  that 
could  not  be  stifled  haunted  Philip — *If  I  go  to  sleep, 
we  shall  all  die  ;  I  will  not  sleep,'  he  said  to  himself. 

He  slept.  After  an  hour's  slumber  M.  de  Sucy  was 
awakened  by  a  hideous  uproar  and  the  sound  of  an 
explosion.  The  remembrance  of  his  duty,  of  the  danger 
of  his  beloved,  rushed  upon  his  mind  with  a  sudden  shock. 
He  uttered  a  cry  like  the  growl  of  a  wild  beast.  He  and 
his  servant  stood  upright  above  the  rest.  They  saw  a 
sea  of  fire  in  the  darkness,  and  against  it  moving  masses 
of  human  figures.  Flames  were  devouring  the  huts  and 
tents.  Despairing  shrieks  and  yelling  cries  reached  their 
ears  ;  they  saw  thousands  upon  thousands  of  wild  and 
desperate  faces  ;  and  through  this  inferno  a  column  of 


222  Farewell 

soldiers  was  cutting  its  way  to  the  bridge,  between  two 
hedges  of  dead  bodies. 

*  Our  rearguard  is  in  full  retreat,'  cried  the  major. 
*  There  is  no  hope  left  !  ' 

'  I  have  spared  your  travelling  carriage,  Philip,'  said  a 
friendly  voice. 

Sucy  turned  and  saw  the  young  aide-de-camp  by  the 
light  of  the  flames. 

*  Oh,  it  is  all  over  with  us,'  he  answered.  *  They 
have  eaten  my  horse.  And  how  am  I  to  make  this 
sleepy  general  and  his  wife  stir  a  step  ?  ' 

'  Take  a  brand,  Philip,  and  threaten  them.' 

*  Threaten  the  Countess  ?  .  .  .' 

*  Good-bye,'  cried  the  aide-de-camp  ;  '  I  have  only  just 
time  to  get  across  that  unlucky  river,  and  go  I  must, 
there  is  my  mother  in  France  !  .  .  .  What  a  night  ! 
This  herd  of  wretches  would  rather  lie  here  in  the  snovv^, 
and  most  of  them  would  sooner  be  burned  alive  than  get 
up.  ...  It  is  four  o'clock,  Philip  !  In  two  hours  the 
Russians  will  begin  to  move,  and  you  will  see  the 
Beresina  covered  with  corpses  a  second  time,  I  can  tell 
you.  You  haven't  a  horse,  and  you  cannot  carry  the 
Countess,  so  come  along  with  me,'  he  went  on,  taking 
his  friend  by  the  arm. 

*  My  dear  fellow,  how  am  I  to  leave  Stéphanie  !  * 
Major  de  Sùcy  grasped  the  Countess,  set  her  on  her 

feet,  and  shook  her  roughly  ;  he  was  in  despair.  He 
compelled  her  to  w^ake,  and  she  stared  at  him  with  dull 
fixed  eyes. 

'  Stephanie,  we  must  go,  or  we  shall  die  here  !  ' 
For  all  answer  the  Countess  tried  to  sink  dovi^n  again 
and  sleep  on  the  earth.     The  aide-de-camp  snatched  a 
brand  from  the  fire  and  shook  it  in  her  face. 

*  We  must  save  her  in  spite  of  herself,'  cried  Philip, 
and  he  carried  her  in  his  arms  to  the  carriage.  He  came 
back  to  entreat  his  friend  to  help  him,  and  the  two 
young  men  took  the  old  general  and  put  him  beside  his 


Farewell  223 

wife,  without  knowing  whether  he  were  alive  or  dead. 
The  major  rolled  the  men  over  as  they  crouched  on  the 
earth,  took  away  the  plundered  clothing,  and  heaped  it 
upon  the  husband  and  wife,  then  he  flung  some  of  the 
broiled  fragments  of  horse-flesh  into  a  corner  of  the 
carriage. 

'  Now,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  '  asked  the  aide-de- 
camp. 

'  Drag  them  along  !  '  answered  Sucy. 

*  You  are  mad  !  ' 
'  You  are  right  !  '  exclaimed  Philip,  folding  his  arms 

on  his  breast. 

Suddenly  a  desperate  plan  occurred  to  him. 

*  Look  you  here  !  '  he  said,  grasping  his  sentinel  by  the 
unwounded  arm,  *  I  leave  her  in  your  care  for  one  hour. 
Bear  in  mind  that  you  must  die  sooner  than  let  any  one, 
no  matter  whom,  come  near  the  carriage  !  ' 

The  major  seized  a  handful  of  the  lady's  diamonds, 
drew  his  sabre,  and  violently  battered  those  who  seemed 
to  him  to  be  the  bravest  among  the  sleepers.  By  this 
means  he  succeeded  in  rousing  the  gigantic  grenadier 
and  a  couple  of  men  whose  rank  and  regiment  were 
undiscoverable. 

*It  is  all  up  with  us  !  '  he  cried. 

*  Of  course  it  is,'  returned  the  grenadier;  *but  that  is 
ill  one  to  me.' 

*Very  well  then,  if  die  you  must,  isn't  it  better 
o  sell  your  life  for  a  pretty  woman,  and  stand  a  chance 
)f  going  back  to  France  again  ?' 

*  I  would  rather  go  to  sleep,'  said  one  of  the  men, 
Iropping  down  into  the  snow  ;  *  and  if  you  worry  me 

ain,  major,  I  shall  stick  my  toasting-iron  into  your 
belly  !  ' 

'What  is  it  all  about,  sir?'  asked  the  grenadier. 
The  man's  drunk.  He  is  a  Parisian,  and  Hkes  to  lie  in 
:he  lap  of  luxury.' 

*You  shall  have  these,  good  fellow,'  said  the  major, 


y 


224  Farewell 

holding  out  a  rivière  of  diamonds,  'if  you  will  follow 
me  and  fight  like  a  madman.  The  Russians  are  not 
ten  minutes  away  ;  they  have  horses  ;  we  will  march 
up  to  the  nearest  battery  and  carry  off  two  stout 
ones.' 

'  How  about  the  sentinels,  major  ?  ' 

*  One  of  us  three '  he  began  ;  then  he  turned  from 

the  soldier  and  looked  at  the  aide-de-camp. — *  You  are 
coming,  aren't  you,  Hippolyte  ?  ' 

Hippolyte  nodded  assent. 

'  One  of  us,'  the  major  went  on,  *  will  look  after  the 
sentry.  Besides,  perhaps  those  blessed  Russians  are  also 
fast  asleep.' 

'  All  right,  major  ;  you  are  a  good  sort  !  But  will 
you  take  me  in  your  carriage  ?  '  asked  the  grenadier. 

*  Yes,  if  you  don't  leave  your  bones  up  yonder. — If  I 
come  to  grief,  promise  me,  you  two,  that  you  will  do 
everything  in  your  power  to  save  the  Countess.' 

'  All  right,'  said  the  grenadier. 

They  set  out  for  the  Russian  lines,  taking  the  direc- 
tion of  the  batteries  that  had  so  cruelly  raked  the  mass 
of  miserable  creatures  huddled  together  by  the  river  bank. 
A  few  minutes  later  the  hoofs  of  two  galloping  horses  rang 
on  the  frozen  snow,  and  the  awakened  battery  fired  a 
volley  that  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  sleepers  ;  the 
hoof-beats  rattled  so  fast  on  the  iron  ground  that  they 
sounded  like  the  hammering  in  a  smithy.  The  generous 
aide-de-camp  had  fallen  ;  the  stalwart  grenadier  had  come 
off  safe  and  sound  ;  and  PhiUp  himself  had  received  a 
bayonet  thrust  in  the  shoulder  while  defending  his  friend. 
Notwithstanding  his  wound,  he  clung  to  his  horse's 
mane,  and  gripped  him  with  his  knees  so  tightly  that 
the  animal  was  held  as  in  a  vice. 

'  God  be  praised  !  '  cried  the  major,  when  he  saw  his 
soldier  still  on  the  spot,  and  the  carriage  standing  v^rhere 
he  had  left  it. 

*  If  you  do  the  right  thing  by  me,  sir,  you  will  get  me 


Farewell  225 

the  cross  for  this.     We  have  treated  them  to  a  sword 
dance  to  a  pretty  tune  from  the  rifle,  eh  ?  ' 

'  We  have  done  nothing  yet  !  Let  us  put  the  horses 
in.     Take  hold  of  these  cords.' 

*  They  are  not  long  enough.' 

*  All  right,  grenadier,  just  go  and  overhaul  those 
fellows  sleeping  there  ;  take  their  shawls,  sheets,  any- 
thing  ' 

'  I  say  !  the  rascal  is  dead,'  cried  the  grenadier,  as  he 
plundered  the  first  man  who  came  to  hand.  *  Why,  they 
are  all  dead  !  how  queer  !  ' 

'All  of  them?' 

'  Yes,  every  one.  It  looks  as  though  horseflesh  à  la 
ncige  was  indigestible.' 

Philip  shuddered  at  the  words.  The  night  had  grown 
twice  as  cold  as  before. 

'Great  heaven  !  to  lose  her  when  I  have  saved  her 
life  a  score  of  times  already.' 

He  shook  the  countess,  '  Stéphanie  !  Stéphanie  !  '  he 
cried. 

She  opened  her  eyes. 

'  We  are  saved,  madame  !  * 

'Saved  !  '  she  echoed,  and  fell  back  again. 

The  horses  were  harnessed  after  a  fashion  at  last. 
The  major  held  his  sabre  in  his  unwounded  hand,  took 
the  reins  in  the  other,  saw  to  his  pistols,  and  sprang  on 
one  of  the  horses,  while  the  grenadier  mounted  the  other. 
The  old  sentinel  had  been  pushed  into  the  carriage,  and 
lay  across  the  knees  of  the  general  and  the  Countess  ;  his 
feet  were  frozen.  Urged  on  by  blows  from  the  flat  of 
the  sabre,  the  horses  dragged  the  carriage  at  a  mad 
gallop  down  to  the  plain,  where  endless  difficulties  awaited 
them.  Before  long  it  became  almost  impossible  to 
advance  without  crushing  sleeping  men,  women,  and 
even  children  at  every  step,  all  of  whom  declined  to  stir 
when  the  grenadier  awakened  them.  In  vain  M.  de 
Sucy  looked    for  the  track   that  the  rearguard  had  cut 


226  Farewell 

through  this  dense  crowd  of  human  beings  ;  there  was 
no  more  sign  of  their  passage  than  of  the  wake  of  a 
ship  in  the  sea.  The  horses  could  only  move  at  a  foot 
pace,  and  were  stopped  most  frequently  by  soldiers,  who 
threatened  to  kill  them. 

*  Do  you  mean  to  get  there  ?  '  asked  the  grenadier. 

*  Yes,  if  it  costs  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  !  if 
it  costs  the  whole  world  !  '  the  major  answered. 

*  Forward,  then  !  .  .  .  You  can't  have  the  omelette 
without  breaking  eggs.'  And  the  grenadier  of  the  Garde 
urged  on  the  horses  over  the  prostrate  bodies,  and  upset 
the  bivouacs  ;  the  blood-stained  wheels  ploughing  that 
field  of  faces  left  a  double  furrow  of  dead.  But  in  justice 
it  should  be  said  that  he  never  ceased  to  thunder  out  his 
warning  cry,  *  Carrion  !  look  out  !  ' 

'  Poor  wretches  !  '  exclaimed  the  major. 

*  Bah  !  That  way,  or  the  cold,  or  the  cannon  !  ' 
said  the  grenadier,  goading  on  the  horses  with  the  point 
of  his  sword. 

Then  came  the  catastrophe,  which  must  have  happened 
sooner  but  for  miraculous  good  fortune  ;  the  carriage 
was  overturned,  and  all  further  progress  was  stopped  at 
once. 

*I  expected  as  much!'  exclaimed  the  imperturbable 
grenadier.  '  Oho  !  he  is  dead  !  '  he  added,  looking  at 
his  comrade. 

'  Poor  Laurent  !  '  said  the  major. 

'  Laurent  !     Wasn't  he  in  the  Fifth  Chasseurs  ?  * 

*Yes.' 

'  My  own  cousin. — Pshaw  !  this  beastly  life  is  not  so 
pleasant  that  one  need  be  sorry  for  him  as  things  go.' 

But  all  this  time  the  carriage  lay  overturned,  and  the 
horses  were  only  released  after  great  and  irreparable  loss 
of  time.  The  shock  had  been  so  violent  that  the 
Countess  had  been  awakened  by  it,  and  the  subsequent 
commotion  aroused  her  from  her  stupor.  She  shook  off 
the  rugs  and  rose. 


Farewell  217 

*  Where  are  we,  Philip  ?  '  she  asked  in  musical  tones, 
as  she  looked  about  her. 

'  About  five  hundred  paces  from  the  bridge.  We  are 
just  about  to  cross  the  Beresina.  When  we  are  on  the 
other  side,  Stéphanie,  I  will  not  tease  you  any  more  ;  I 
will  let  you  go  to  sleep  ;  we  shall  be  in  safety,  we  can 
go  on  to  Wilna  in  peace.  God  grant  that  you  may 
never  know  what  your  life  has  cost  !  ' 

*  You  are  wounded  !  ' 

*  A  mere  trifle.' 
The  hour  of  doom  had  come.     The  Russian  cannon 

announced  the  day.  The  Russians  were  in  possession  of 
Studzianka,  and  thence  were  raking  the  plain  with  grape- 
hot  ;  and  by  the  first  dim  light  of  the  dawn  the  major 
aw  two  columns  moving  and  forming  above  on  the 
heights.  Then  a  cry  of  horror  went  up  from  the  crowd, 
and  in  a  moment  every  one  sprang  to  his  feet.  Each 
instinctively  felt  his  danger,  and  all  made  a  rush  for  the 
bridge,  surging  towards  it  hke  a  wave. 

Then  the  Russians  came  down  upon  them,  swift  as  a 
conflagration.  Men,  women,  children,  and  horses  all 
crowded  towards  the  river.  Luckily  for  the  major  and  the 
Countess,  they  were  still  at  some  distance  from  the  bank. 
General  Eblé  had  just  set  fire  to  the  bridge  on  the  other 
side  ;  but  in  spite  of  all  the  warnings  given  to  those  who 
ushed  towards  the  chance  of  salvation,  not  one  among 
hem  could  or  would  draw  back.  The  overladen  bridge 
gave  way,  and  not  only  so,  the  impetus  of  the  frantic 
iving  wave  towards  that  fatal  bank  was  such  that  a  dense 
rowd  of  human  beings  was  thrust  into  the  water  as  if  by 
m  avalanche.  The  sound  of  a  single  human  cry  could 
lot  be  distinguished  ;  there  was  a  dull  crash  as  if  an 
normous  stone  had  fallen  into  the  water — and  the 
Beresina  was  covered  with  corpses. 

The  violent  recoil  of  those  in  front,  striving  to  escape 
this  death,  brought  them  into  hideous  collision  with 
hose  behind  them,  who  were  pressing  towards  the  bank. 


2a8  Farewell 

and  many  were  suffocated  and  crushed.  The  Comte 
and  Comtesse  de  Vandières  owed  their  lives  to  the 
carriage.  The  horses  that  had  trampled  and  crushed 
so  many  dying  men  were  crushed  and  trampled  to  death 
in  their  turn  by  the  human  maelstrom  which  eddied 
from  the  bank.  Sheer  physical  strength  saved  the 
major  and  the  grenadier.  They  killed  others  in  self- 
defence.  That  wild  sea  of  human  faces  and  living 
bodies,  surging  to  and  fro  as  by  one  impulse,  left  the  bank 
of  the  Beresina  clear  for  a  few  moments.  The  multitude 
had  hurled  themselves  back  on  the  plain.  Some  few 
men  sprang  down  from  the  banks  toward  the  river,  not 
so  much  with  any  hope  of  reaching  the  opposite  shore, 
which  for  them  meant  France,  as  from  dread  of  the 
wastes  of  Siberia.  For  some  bold  spirits  despair  became 
a  panoply.  An  officer  leapt  from  hummock  to  hum- 
mock of  ice,  and  reached  the  other  shore  ;  one  of  the 
soldiers  scrambled  over  miraculously  on  the  piles  of  dead 
bodies  and  drift  ice.  But  the  immense  multitude  left 
behind  saw  at  last  that  the  Russians  would  not  slaughter 
twenty  thousand  unarmed  men,  too  numb  with  the  cold 
to  attempt  to  resist  them,  and  each  awaited  his  fate  with 
dreadful  apathy.  By  this  time  the  major  and  his  grena- 
dier, the  old  general  and  his  wife,  were  left  to  them- 
selves not  very  far  from  the  place  where  the  bridge  had 
been.  All  four  stood  dry-eyed  and  silent  among  the 
heaps  of  dead.  A  few  able-bodied  men  and  one  or  two 
officers,  who  had  recovered  all  their  energy  at  this  crisis, 
gathered  about  them.  The  group  was  sufficiently 
large  ;  there  were  about  fifty  men  all  told.  A  couple  of 
hundred  paces  from  them  stood  the  wreck  of  the  artillery 
bridge,  which  had  broken  down  the  day  before  ;  the 
major  saw  this,  and  '  Let  us  make  a  raft  !  '  he  cried. 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  before  the 
whole  group  hurried  to  the  ruins  of  the  bridge.  A  crowd 
of  men  began  to  pick  up  iron  clamps  and  to  hunt  for 
planks  and  ropes — for  all  the  materials  for  a  raft,  in  short. 


Farewell  2-25 

A  score  of  armed  men  and  officers,  under  command  of 
the  major,  stood  on  guard  to  protect  the  workers  from 
any  desperate  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  multitude  if 
they  should  guess  their  design.  The  longing  for  free- 
dom, which  inspires  prisoners  to  accomplish  impossi- 
bilities, cannot  be  compared  with  the  hope  which  lent 
energy  at  that  moment  to  these  forlorn  Frenchmen. 

'  The  Russians  are  upon  us  !  Here  are  the  Russians  !  ' 
the  guard  shouted  to  the  workers. 

The  timbers  creaked,  the  raft  grew  larger,  stronger, 
and  more  substantial.  Generals,  colonels,  and  common 
soldiers  all  alike  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  waggon- 
wheels,  chains,  coils  of  rope,  and  planks  of  timber  ;  it 
was  a  modern  realisation  of  the  building  of  Noah's  ark. 
The  young  Countess,  sitting  by  her  husband's  side, 
looked  on,  regretful  that  she  could  do  nothing  to  aid 
the  workers,  though  she  helped  to  knot  the  lengths  of 
rope  together. 

At  last  the  raft  was  finished.  Forty  men  launched  it 
out  into  the  river,  while  ten  of  the  soldiers  held  the 
ropes  that  must  keep  it  moored  to  the  shore.  The 
moment  that  they  saw  their  handiwork  floating  on  the 
Beresina,  they  sprang  down  on  to  it  from  the  bank  with 
callous  selfishness.  The  major,  dreading  the  frenzy  of 
the  first  rush,  held  back  Stéphanie  and  the  general;  but  a 
shudder  ran  through  him  when  he  saw  the  landing  place 
black  with  people,  and  men  crowding  down  like  play- 
goers into  the  pit  of  a  theatre. 

*  It  was  I  who  thought  of  the  raft,  you  savages  !  '  he 
cried.  *  I  have  saved  your  lives,  and  you  will  not  make 
00m  for  me  !  ' 

A  confused  murmur  was  the  only  answer.  The  men 
It  the  edge  took  up  stout  poles,  thrust  them  against  the 
3ank  with  all  their  might,  so  as  to  shove  the  raft  out  and 
yain  an  impetus  at  its  starting  upon  a  journey  across  a 
iea  of  floating  ice  and  dead  bodies  towards  the  other 
hore. 


230  Farewell 

*  Tonnerre  de  Dieu  !  I  will  knock  some  of  you  off 
into  the  water  if  you  don't  make  room  for  the  major  and 
his  two  companions/  shouted  the  grenadier.  He  raised 
his  sabre  threateningly,  delayed  the  departure,  and  made 
the  men  stand  closer  together,  in  spite  of  threatening 
yells. 

*  I  shall  fall  in  !  ...  I  shall  go  overboard  !  .  .  .  '  his 
fellows  shouted. 

'  Let  us  start  !     Put  off  !  ' 

The  major  gazed  with  tearless  eyes  at  the  woman  he 
loved  i  an  impulse  of  sublime  resignation  raised  her  eyes 
to  heaven. 

*  To  die  with  you  !  '  she  said. 

In  the  situation  of  the  folk  upon  the  raft  there  was  a 
certain  comic  element.  They  might  utter  hideous  yells, 
but  not  one  of  them  dared  to  oppose  the  grenadier,  for 
they  were  packed  together  so  tightly  that  if  one  man 
were  knocked  down,  the  whole  raft  might  capsize.  At 
this  delicate  crisis,  a  captain  tried  to  rid  himself  of  one  of 
his  neighbours  ;  the  man  saw  the  hostile  intention  of 
his  officer,  collared  him,  and  pitched  him  overboard. 
*  Aha  !  The  duck  has  a  mind  to  drink.  .  .  .  Over  with 
you  !  —  There  is  room  for  two  now  !  '  he  shouted. 
'  Quick,  major  !  throw  your  little  woman  over,  and 
come  !  Never  mind  that  old  dotard  j  he  will  drop  ofF 
to-morrow  !  ' 

'  Be  quick  !  '  cried  a  voice,  made  up  of  a  hundred 
voices. 

'  Come,  major  !  Those  fellows  are  making  a  fuss,  and 
well  they  may  !  ' 

The  Comte  de  Vandières  flung  off  his  ragged  blankets, 
and  stood  before  them  in  his  general's  uniform. 

*Let  us  save  the  Count,'  said  Philip. 

Stéphanie  grasped  his  hand  tightly  in  hers,  flung  her 
arms  about,  and  clasped  him  close  in  an  agonised  embrace. 

*  Farewell,'  she  said. 

Then  each  knew  the  other's  thoughts.     The  Comte 


FarewelJ  23 1 

de  Vandières  recovered  his  energies  and  presence  of 
mind  sufficiently  to  jump  on  to  the  raft,  whither 
Stéphanie  followed  him  after  one  last  look  at  Philip. 

'  Major,  won't  you  take  my  place  ?  I  do  not  care  a 
straw  for  life  j  I  have  neither  wife,  nor  child,  nor  mother 
belonging  to  me ' 

'  I  give  them  into  your  charge,'  cried  the  major,  indi- 
cating the  Count  and  his  wife. 

*  Be  easy  ;  I  will  take  as  much  care  of  them  as  of  the 
apple  of  my  eye.' 

Philip  stood  stock-still  on  the  bank.  The  raft  sped  so 
violently  towards  the  opposite  shore  that  it  ran  aground 
with  a  violent  shock  to  all  on  board.  The  count, 
standing  on  the  very  edge,  was  shaken  into  the  stream  ; 
and  as  he  fell,  a  mass  of  ice  swept  by  and  struck  off  his 
head,  and  sent  it  flying  like  a  ball. 

*  Hey  !  major  !  '  shouted  the  grenadier. 

*  Farewell  !  '  a  woman's  voice  called  aloud. 

An  icy  shiver  of  dread  ran  through  Philip  de  Sucy, 
and  he  dropped  down  where  he  stood,  overcome  with 
cold  and  sorrow  and  weariness. 

*  My  poor  niece  went  out  of  her  mind,'  the  doctor 
added  after  a  brief  pause.  *  Ah  !  monsieur,'  he  went  on, 
grasping  M.  d'Albon's  hand,  *  what  a  fearful  life  for  the 
poor  little  thing,  so  young,  so  delicate  !  An  unheard-of 
misfortune  separated  her  from  that  grenadier  of  the 
Garde  (Fleuriot  by  name),  and  for  two  years  she  was 
dragged  on  after  the  army,  the  laughing-stock  of  a 
rabble  of  outcasts.  She  went  barefoot,  I  heard,  ill-clad, 
neglected,  and  starved  for  months  at  a  time  ;  sometimes 
confined  in  a  hospital,  sometimes  living  like  a  hunted 
animal.  God  alone  knows  all  the  misery  which  she 
endured,  and  yet  she  lives.  She  was  shut  up  in  a  mad- 
house in  a  little  German  town,  while  her  relations, 
believing  her  to  be  dead,  were  dividing  her  property  here 
in  France. 


232  Farewell 

'In  18 16  the  grenadier  Fleuriot  recognised  her  in  an 
inn  in  Strasbourg.  She  had  just  managed  to  escape  from 
captivity.  Some  peasants  told  him  that  the  Countess 
had  lived  for  a  w^hole  month  in  a  forest,  and  how  that 
they  had  tracked  her  and  tried  to  catch  her  w^ithout 
success. 

'  I  w^as  at  that  time  not  many  leagues  from  Strasbourg; 
and  hearing  the  talk  about  this  girl  in  the  wood,  I  wished 
to  verify  the  strange  facts  that  had  given  rise  to  absurd 
stories.  What  was  my  feeling  when  I  beheld  the 
Countess  ?  Fleuriot  told  me  all  that  he  knew  of  the 
piteous  story.  I  took  the  poor  fellow  with  my  niece 
into  Auvergne,  and  there  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
him.  He  had  some  ascendency  over  Mme.  de  Vandières. 
He  alone  succeeded  in  persuading  her  to  wear  clothes  ;  and 
in  those  days  her  one  word  of  human  speech — Farewell — 
she  seldom  uttered.  Fleuriot  set  himself  to  the  task  of 
awakening  certain  associations  ;  but  there  he  failed  com- 
pletely ;  he  drew  that  one  sorrowful  word  from  her  a 
little  more  frequently,  that  was  all.  But  the  old  grena- 
dier could  amuse  her,  and  devoted  himself  to  playing  with 

her,  and  through  him  I  hoped  ;  but '  here  Stephanie's 

uncle  broke  off.     After  a  moment  he  went  on  again. 

*  Here  she  has  found  another  creature  with  whom  she 
seems  to  have  an  understanding — an  idiot  peasant  girl, 
who  once,  in  spite  of  her  plainness  and  imbecility,  fell  in 
love  with  a  mason.  The  mason  thought  of  marrying 
her  because  she  had  a  little  bit  of  land,  and  for  a  whole 
year  poor  Geneviève  was  the  happiest  of  living  creatures. 
She  dressed  in  her  best,  and  danced  on  Sundays  with 
Dallot  ;  she  understood  love  ;  there  was  room  for  love  in 
her  heart  and  brain.  But  Dallot  thought  better  of  it. 
He  found  another  girl  who  had  all  her  senses  and  rather 
more  land  than  Geneviève,  and  he  forsook  Geneviève  for 
her.  Then  the  poor  thing  lost  the  little  intelligence 
that  love  had  developed  in  her  ;  she  can  do  nothing  now 
but  cut  grass  and  look  after  the  cattle.     Mv  niece  and 


Farewell  7.^3 

the  poor  girl  are  in  some  sort  bound  to  each  other  by  the 
invisible  chain  of  their  common  destiny,  and  by  their 
madness  due  to  the  same  cause.  Just  come  here  a 
moment  ;  look  !  '  and  Stephanie's  uncle  led  the  Marquis 
d'Albon  to  the  window. 

There,  in  fact,  the  magistrate  beheld  the  pretty  Countess 
sitting  on  the  ground  at  Genevieve's  knee,  while  the 
peasant  girl  was  wholly  absorbed  in  combing  out 
Stephanie's  long,  black  hair  with  a  huge  comb.  The 
Countess  submitted  herself  to  this,  uttering  low  smothered 
cries  that  expressed  her  enjoyment  of  the  sensation  of 
physical  comfort.  A  shudder  ran  through  M.  d'Albon 
as  he  saw  her  attitude  of  languid  abandonment,  the 
animal  supineness  that  revealed  an  utter  lack  of  intelli- 
gence. 

'  Oh  !  Philip,  Philip  !  '  he  cried,  *  past  troubles  are  as 
nothing.     Is  it  quite  hopeless  ?  '  he  asked. 

The  doctor  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

*  Good-bye,  monsieur,'  said  M.  d'Albon,  pressing  the 
old  man's  hand.  '  My  friend  is  expecting  me  ;  you  will 
see  him  here  before  very  long.' 

'Then  it  is  Stéphanie  herself?'  cried  Sucy  when  the 
Marquis  had  spoken  the  first  few  words.  '  Ah  !  until 
now  I  did  not  feel  sure  !  '  he  added.  Tears  filled  the 
dark  eyes  that  were  wont  to  wear  a  stern  expression. 

'  Yes  ;  she  is  the  Comtesse  de  Vandières,'  his  friend 
replied. 

The  colonel  started  up,  and  hurriedly  began  to  dress. 

'Why,  Philip!'  cried  the  horrified  magistrate.  'Are 
you  going  mad  ?  ' 

'  I  am  quite  well  now,'  said  the  colonel  simply. 
'This  news  has  soothed  all  my  bitterest  grief;  what 
pain  could  hurt  me  while  I  think  of  Stéphanie  ?  I 
am  going  over  to  the  Minorite  convent,  to  see  her  and 
speak  to  her,  to  restore  her  to  health  again.  She  is  free; 
ah,  surely,  surely,  happiness  will  smile  on  us,  or  there  is 


234  Farewell 

no  Providence  above.  How  can  you  think  that  she 
could  hear  my  voice,  poor  Stéphanie,  and  not  recover  her 
reason  ?  ' 

*  She  has  seen  you  once  already,  and  she  did  not 
recognise  you,'  the  magistrate  answered  gently,  trying  to 
suggest  some  wholesome  fears  to  this  friend,  whose  hopes 
were  visibly  too  high. 

The  colonel  shuddered,  but  he  began  to  smile  again, 
with  a  slight  involuntary  gesture  of  incredulity.  Nobody 
ventured  to  oppose  his  plans,  and  a  few  hours  later  he 
had  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  old  priory,  to  be  near  the 
doctor  and  the  Comtesse  de  Vandières. 

*  Where  is  she  ?  '  he  cried  at  once. 

*  Hush  !  '  answered  M.  Fanjat,  Stephanie's  uncle.  '  She 
is  sleeping.     Stay  ;  here  she  is.' 

Philip  saw  the  poor  distraught  sleeper  crouching  on  a 
stone  bench  in  the  sun.  Her  thick  hair,  straggling  over 
her  face,  screened  it  from  the  glare  and  heat  j  her  arms 
dropped  languidly  to  the  earth  ;  she  lay  at  ease  as  grace- 
fully as  a  fawn,  her  feet  tucked  up  beneath  her  ;  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  with  her  even  breathing  ;  there 
was  the  same  transparent  whiteness  as  of  porcelain  in 
her  skin  and  complexion  that  we  so  often  admire  in 
children's  faces.  Geneviève  sat  there  motionless,  hold- 
ing a  spray  that  Stéphanie  doubtless  had  brought  down 
from  the  top  of  one  of  the  tallest  poplars  ;  the  idiot 
girl  was  waving  the  green  branch  above  her,  driving 
away  the  flies  from  her  sleeping  companion,  and  gently 
fanning  her. 

She  stared  at  M.  Fanjat  and  the  colonel  as  they  came 
up  ;  then,  like  a  dumb  animal  that  recognises  its  master, 
she  slowly  turned  her  face  towards  the  countess,  and 
watched  over  her  as  before,  showing  not  the  slightest 
sign  of  intelligence  or  of  astonishment.  The  air  was 
scorching.  The  glittering  particles  of  the  stone  bench 
shone  like  sparks  of  fire  ;  the  meadow  sent  up  the 
quivering  vapours  that  hover  above  the  grass  and  gleam 


Farewell  235 

like  golden  dust  when  they  catch  the  light,  but  Geneviève 
did  not  seem  to  feel  the  raging  heat. 

The  colonel  wrung  M.  Fanjat's  hands  ;  the  tears  that 
gathered  in  the  soldier's  eyes  stole  down  his  cheeks,  and 
fell  on  the  grass  at  Stephanie's  feet. 

*  Sir,'  said  her  uncle,  '  for  these  two  years  my  heart  has 
been  broken  daily.  Before  very  long  you  will  be  as  I 
am  ;  if  you  do  not  weep,  you  will  not  feel  your  anguish 
the  less.' 

*  You  have  taken  care  of  her  !  '  said  the  colonel,  and 
jealousy  no  less  than  gratitude  could  be  read  in  his  eyes. 

The  two  men  understood  one  other.  They  grasped 
each  other  by  the  hand  again,  and  stood  motionless, 
gazing  in  admiration  at  the  serenity  that  slumber  had 
brought  into  the  lovely  face  before  them.  Stéphanie 
heaved  a  sigh  from  time  to  time,  and  this  sigh,  that 
had  all  the  appearance  of  sensibility,  made  the  unhappy 
colonel  tremble  with  gladness. 

*  Alas  !  '  M.  Fanjat  said  gently,  *  do  not  deceive 
yourself,  monsieur  ;  as  you  see  her  now,  she  is  in  full 
possession  of  such  reason  as  she  has.' 

Those  who  have  sat  for  whole  hours  absorbed  in  the 
delight  of  watching  over  the  slumber  of  some  tenderly- 
beloved  one,  whose  waking  eyes  will  smile  for  them, 
will  doubtless  understand  the  bliss  and  anguish  that 
shook  the  colonel.  For  him  this  slumber  was  an  illu- 
sion, the  waking  must  be  a  kind  of  death,  the  most 
dreadful  of  all  deaths. 

Suddenly  a  kid  frisked  in  two  or  three  bounds  towards 
the  bench,  and  snufFed  at  Stéphanie.  The  sound 
awakened  her  ;  she  sprang  lightly  to  her  feet  without 
scaring  away  the  capricious  creature  ;  but  as  soon  as  she 
saw  Philip  she  fled,  followed  by  her  four-footed  playmate, 
to  a  thicket  of  elder-trees  ;  then  she  uttered  a  little  cry 
like  the  note  of  a  startled  wild-bird,  the  same  sound  that 
the  colonel  had  heard  once  before  near  the  grating, 
when  the  Countess  appeared  to  M.  d'AIbon  for  the  first 


236  Farewell 

time.  At  length  she  climbed  into  a  laburnum-tree, 
ensconced  herself  in  the  feathery  greenery,  and  peered  out 
at  the  strange  man  with  as  much  interest  as  the  most 
inquisitive  nightingale  in  the  forest. 

'  Farewell,  farewell,  farewell,'  she  said,  but  the  soul 
sent  no  trace  of  expression  of  feeling  through  the  words, 
spoken  with  the  careless  intonation  of  a  bird's  notes. 

*  She  does  not  know  me  !  '  the  colonel  exclaimed  in 
despair.  *  Stéphanie  !  Here  is  Philip,  your  Philip  !  .  .  . 
Philip  !  '  and  the  poor  soldier  went  towards  the  laburnum- 
tree  j  but  when  he  stood  three  paces  away,  the  Countess 
eyed  him  almost  defiantly,  though  there  was  timidity  in 
her  eyes  ;  then  at  a  bound  she  sprang  from  the  laburnum 
to  an  acacia,  and  thence  to  a  spruce-fir,  swinging  from 
bough  to  bough  with  marvellous  dexterity. 

'  Do  not  follow  her,'  said  M.  Fanjat,  addressing  the 
colonel.  '  You  would  arouse  a  feeling  of  aversion  in  her 
which  might  become  insurmountable;  I  will  help  you  to 
make  her  acquaintance  and  to  tame  her.  Sit  down  on 
the  bench.  If  you  pay  no  heed  whatever  to  her,  poor 
child,  it  will  not  be  long  before  you  will  see  her  come 
nearer  by  degrees  to  look  at  you.' 

'  That  she  should  not  know  me  !  that  she  should  fly 
from  me  !  '  the  colonel  repeated,  sitting  down  on  a 
rustic  bench  .and  leaning  his  back  against  a  tree  that 
overshadowed  it. 

He  bowed  his  head.  The  doctor  remained  silent. 
Before  very  long  the  Countess  stole  softly  down  from 
her  high  refuge  in  the  spruce  fir,  flitting  like  a  will-of- 
the-wisp  ;  for  as  the  wind  stirred  the  boughs,  she  lent 
herself  at  times  to  the  swaying  movements  of  the  trees. 
At  each  branch  she  stopped  and  peered  at  the  stranger  ; 
but  as  she  saw  him  sitting  motionless,  she  at  length 
jumped  down  to  the  grass,  stood  a  while,  and  came 
slowly  across  the  meadow.  When  she  took  up  her 
position  by  a  tree  about  ten  paces  from  the  bench,  M. 
Fanjat  spoke  to  the  colonel  in  a  low  voice. 


Farewell  237 

•  Feel  in  my  pocket  for  some  lumps  of  sugar,'  he  said, 
*  and  let  her  see  them,  she  will  come  j  I  willingly  give 
up  to  you  the  pleasure  of  giving  her  sweetmeats.  She 
is  passionately  fond  of  sugar,  and  by  that  means  you  will 
accustom  her  to  come  to  you  and  to  know  you.' 

*She  never  cared  for  sweet  things  when  she  was  a 
woman,'  Philip  answered  sadly. 

When  he  held  out  the  lump  of  sugar  between  his 
thumb  and  finger,  and  shook  it,  Stéphanie  uttered  the 
wild  note  again,  and  sprang  quickly  towards  him  ;  then 
she  stopped  short,  there  was  a  conflict  between  longing 
for  the  sweet  morsel  and  instinctive  fear  of  him  ;  she 
looked  at  the  sugar,  turned  her  head  away,  and  looked 
again  like  an  unfortunate  dog  forbidden  to  touch  some 
scrap  of  food,  while  his  master  slowly  recites  the  greater 
part  of  the  alphabet  until  he  reaches  the  letter  that 
gives  permission.  At  length  animal  appetite  conquered 
fear  j  Stéphanie  rushed  to  Philip,  held  out  a  dainty 
brown  hand  to  pounce  upon  the  coveted  morsel,  touched 
her  lover's  fingers,  snatched  the  piece  of  sugar,  and 
vanished  with  it  into  a  thicket.  This  painful  scene  was 
too  much  for  the  colonel  ;  he  burst  into  tears,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  drawing-room. 

'  Then  has  love  less  courage  than  affection  ?  '  M.  Fanjat 
asked  him.  *  I  have  hope.  Monsieur  le  Baron.  My  poor 
niece  was  once  in  a  far  more  pitiable  state  than  at 
present/ 

'  Is  it  possible  ?  '  cried  Philip. 

'  She  would  not  wear  clothes,'  answered  the  doctor. 

The  colonel  shuddered,  and  his  face  grew  pale.  To 
the  doctor's  mind  this  pallor  was  an  unhealthy  symptom; 
he  went  over  to  him  and  felt  his  pulse,  M.  de  Sucy  was 
in  a  high  fever  ;  by  dint  of  persuasion,  he  succeeded  in 
putting  the  patient  in  bed,  and  gave  him  a  few  drops  of 
laudanum  to  gain  repose  and  sleep. 

J   The  Baron  de  Sucy  spent  nearly  a  week,  in  a  constant 


238  Farewell 

no  tears  left  to  shed.  He  was  often  well  nigh  heart- 
broken ;  he  could  not  grow  accustomed  to  the  sight  of 
the  Countess's  madness  ;  but  he  made  terms  for  himself, 
as  it  were,  in  this  cruel  position,  and  sought  alleviations 
in  his  pain.  His  heroism  was  boundless.  He  found 
courage  to  overcome  Stephanie's  wild  shyness  by  choosing 
sweetmeats  for  her,  and  devoted  all  his  thoughts  to  this, 
bringing  these  dainties,  and  following  up  the  little 
victories  that  he  set  himself  to  gain  over  Stephanie's 
instincts  (the  last  gleam  of  intelligence  in  her),  until  he 
succeeded  to  some  extent — she  grew  tamer  than  ever 
before.  Every  morning  the  colonel  went  into  the  park  ; 
and  if,  after  a  long  search  for  the  Countess,  he  could  not 
discover  the  tree  in  which  she  was  rocking  herself 
gently,  nor  the  nook  where  she  lay  crouching  at  play 
with  some  bird,  nor  the  roof  where  she  had  perched  her- 
self, he  would  whistle  the  well-known  air  Partant  pour  la 
Syrie,  which  recalled  old  memories  of  their  love,  and 
Stéphanie  would  run  towards  him  lightly  as  a  fawn. 
She  saw  the  colonel  so  often  that  she  was  no  longer 
afraid  of  him  ;  before  very  long  she  would  sit  on  his 
knee  with  her  thin,  lithe  arms  about  him.  And  while 
thus  they  sat  as  lovers  love  to  do,  Philip  doled  out 
sweetmeats  one  by  one  to  the  eager  Countess.  When 
they  were  all. finished,  the  fancy  often  took  Stéphanie  to 
search  through  her  lover's  pockets  with  a  monkey's  quick 
instinctive  dexterity,  till  she  had  assured  herself  that  there 
was  nothing  left,  and  then  she  gazed  at  Philip  with  vacant 
eyes  ;  there  was  no  thought,  no  gratitude  in  their  clear 
depths.  Then  she  would  play  with  him.  She  tried  to 
take  off  his  boots  to  see  his  foot  ;  she  tore  his  gloves  to 
shreds,  and  put  on  his  hat  ;  and  she  would  let  him  pass 
his  hands  through  her  hair,  and  take  her  in  his  arms, 
and  submit  passively  to  his  passionate  kisses,  and  at  last, 
if  he  shed  tears,  she  would  gaze  silently  at  him. 

She  quite    understood   the   signal  when    he    whistled 
Partant  pour  la  Syrie,  but  he    could    never   succeed  in 


Farewell  239 

inducing  her  to  pronounce  her  own  name — Stéphanie. 
Philip  persevered  in  his  heartrending  task,  sustained  by 
a  hope  that  never  left  him.  If  on  some  bright  autumn 
morning  he  saw  her  sitting  quietly  on  a  bench  under  a 
poplar  tree,  grown  brown  now  as  the  season  wore,  the 
unhappy  lover  would  lie  at  her  feet  and  gaze  into  her 
eyes  as  long  as  she  would  let  him  gaze,  hoping  that  some 
spark  of  intelligence  might  gleam  from  them.  At  times 
he  lent  himself  to  an  illusion  ;  he  would  imagine  that  he 
saw  the  hard,  changeless  light  in  them  falter,  that  there 
was  a  new  life  and  softness  in  them,  and  he  would  cry, 
*  Stéphanie  !  oh,  Stéphanie  !  you  hear  me,  you  see  me, 
do  you  not  ?  ' 

But  for  her  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  Hke  any  other 
sound,  the  stirring  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  or  the  lowing 
of  the  cow  on  which  she  scrambled;  and  the  colonel  wrung 
his  hands  in  a  despair  that  lost  none  of  its  bitterness  ;  nay, 
time  and  these  vain  efforts  only  added  to  his  anguish. 

One  evening,  under  the  quiet  sky,  in  the  midst  of  the 
silence  and  peace  of  the  forest  hermitage,  M.  Fanjat  saw 
from  a  distance  that  the  Baron  was  busy  loading  a  pistol, 
and  knew  that  the  lover  had  given  up  all  hope.  The 
blood  surged  to  the  old  doctor's  heart  ;  and  if  he  over- 
came the  dizzy  sensation  that  seized  on  him,  it  was  be- 
cause he  would  rather  see  his  niece  live  with  a  disordered 
brain  than  lose  her  for  ever.     He  hurried  to  the  place. 

*  What  are  you  doing  ?  '  he  cried. 

*  That  is  for  me,'  the  colonel  answered,  pointing  to  a 
oaded  pistol  on  the  bench,  *  and  this  is  for  her  !  '  he 
idded,  as  he  rammed  down  the  wad  into  the  pistol  that 
le  held  in  his  hands. 

The  Countess  lay  stretched  out  on  the  ground,  play- 
ng  with  the  balls. 

*  Then  you  do  not  know  that  last  night,  as  she  slept, 
»he  murmured  "  Philip  "  '  ?  said  the  doctor  quietly,  dis- 
embling  his  alarm. 

She  called  my  name  ?  '  cried  the  Baron,  letting  his 


240  Farewell 

weapon  fall.  Stéphanie  picked  it  up,  but  he  snatched  it 
out  of  her  hands,  caught  the  other  pistol  from  the  bench, 
and  fled. 

*Poor  Httle  one!'  exclaimed  the  doctor,  rejoicing 
that  his  stratagem  had  succeeded  so  well.  He  held  her 
tightly  to  his  heart  as  he  went  on.  '  He  would  have 
killed  you,  selfish  that  he  is  !  He  wants  you  to  die 
because  he  is  unhappy.  He  cannot  learn  to  love  you  for 
your  own  sake,  little  one  !  We  forgive  him,  do  we  not  ? 
He  is  senseless  ;  you  are  only  mad.  Never  mind  ;  God 
alone  shall  take  you  to  Himself.  We  look  upon  you  as 
unhappy  because  you  no  longer  share  our  miseries,  fools 
that  we  are  !  .  .  .  Why,  she  is  happy,'  he  said,  taking 
her  on  his  knee  ;  *  nothing  troubles  her  j  she  lives  like 
the  birds,  like  the  deer ' 

Stéphanie  sprang  upon  a  young  blackbird  that  was 
hopping  about,  caught  it  with  a  little  shriek  of  glee, 
twisted  its  neck,  looked  at  the  dead  bird,  and  dropped  it 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree  without  giving  it  another  thought. 

The  next  morning  at  daybreak  the  colonel  went  out 
into  the  garden  to  look  for  Stephanie  ;  hope  was  very 
strong  in  him.  He  did  not  see  her,  and  whistled  j  and 
when  she  came,  he  took  her  arm,  and  for  the  first  time 
they  walked  together  along  an  alley  beneath  the  trees, 
while  the  fresh  morning  wind  shook  down  the  dead 
leaves  about  them.  The  colonel  sat  down,  and  Sté- 
phanie, of  her  own  accord,  lit  upon  his  knee.  Philip 
trembled  with  gladness. 

'  Love  !  '  he  cried,  covering  her  hands  with  passionate 
kisses,  '  I  am  Philip  .  .  .' 

She  looked  curiously  at  him. 

*  Come  close,'  he  added,  as  he  held  her  tightly.  *  Do 
you  reel  the  beating  of  my  heart  ?  It  has  beat  for  you, 
for  you  only.  I  love  you  always.  Philip  is  not  dead. 
He  is  here.  You  are  sitting  on  his  knee.  You  are  my 
Stéphanie,  I  am  your  Philip  !  ' 

*  Farewell  !  '  she  said,  *  farewell  !  ' 


Farewell  241 

The  colonel  shivered.  He  thought  that  some  vibra- 
tion of  his  highly  wrought  feeling  had  surely  reached  his 
beloved  ;  that  the  heartrending  cry,  draw^n  from  him  by 
hope,  the  utmost  effort  of  a  love  that  must  last  for  ever, 
of  passion  in  its  ecstasy,  striving  to  reach  the  soul  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  must  awaken  her. 

'  Oh,  Stéphanie  !  we  shall  be  happy  yet  !  ' 
A  cry  of  satisfaction  broke  from  her,  a  dim  light  of 
intelligence  gleamed  in  her  eyes. 

*  She  knows  me  !  .  .  .  Stéphanie  !  .  .  .' 

The  colonel  felt  his  heart  swell,  and  tears  gathered  under 
his  eyelids.  But  all  at  once  the  Countess  held  up  a  bit  of 
sugar  for  him  to  see  ;  she  had  discovered  it  by  searching 
diligently  for  it  while  he  spoke.  What  he  had  mistaken 
for  a  human  thought  was  a  degree  of  reason  required  for 
a  monkey's  mischievous  trick  ! 

Philip  fainted.  M.  Fanjat  found  the  Countess  sitting 
on  his  prostrate  body.  She  was  nibbling  her  bit  of  sugar, 
giving  expression  to  her  enjoyment  by  little  grimaces 
and  gestures  that  would  have  been  thought  clever  in  a 
woman  in  full  possession  of  her  senses  if  she  tried  to 
mimic  her  paroquet  or  her  cat. 

*  Oh,  my  friend  !  '  cried  Philip,  when  he  came  to 
himself.  *■  This  is  like  death  every  moment  of  the  day  ! 
I  love  her  too  much  !  I  could  bear  anything  if  only 
through  her  madness  she  had  kept  some  little  trace  of 
womanhood.  But,  day  after  day,  to  see  her  like  a  wild 
animal,  not  even  a  sense  of  modesty  left,  to  see  her ' 

'  So  you  must  have  a  theatrical  madness,  must  you  ?  * 
said  the  doctor  sharply,  *and  your  prejudices  are  stronger 
than  your  lover's  devotion  ?  What,  monsieur  !  I  resign 
to  you  the  sad  pleasure  of  giving  my  niece  her  food,  and 
the  enjoyment  of  her  playtime  ;  I  have  kept  for  myself 
nothing  but  the  most  burdensome  cares.     I  watch  over 

her  while  you  are  asleep,  I Go,  Monsieur,  and  give 

up  the  task.     Leave  this  dreary  hermitage  ;  I  can  Hve 
with  my  little  darling j  I  understand  her  disease;  I  study 

Q 


242  Farewell 

her  movements;  I  know  her  secrets.  Some  day  you  shall 
thank  me.' 

The  colonel  left  the  Minorite  convent,  that  he  w^as 
destined  to  see  only  once  again.  The  doctor  was  alarmed 
by  the  effect  that  his  words  made  upon  his  guest;  his 
niece's  lover  became  as  dear  to  him  as  his  niece.  If  either 
of  them  deserved  to  be  pitied,  that  one  was  certainly 
Philip  ;  did  he  not  bear  alone  the  burden  of  an  appalling 
sorrow  ? 

The  doctor  made  inquiries,  and  learned  that  the  hapless 
colonel  had  retired  to  a  country  house  of  his  near  Saint- 
Germain.  A  dream  had  suggested  to  him  a  plan  for 
restoring  the  Countess  to  reason,  and  the  doctor  did 
not  know  that  he  was  spending  the  rest  of  the  autumn 
in  carrying  out  a  vast  scheme.  A  small  stream  ran 
through  his  park,  and  in  winter  time  flooded  a  low-lying 
land,  something  like  the  plain  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
Beresina.  The  village  of  Satout,  on  the  slope  of  a  ridge 
above  it,  bounded  the  horizon  of  a  picture  of  desolation, 
something  as  Studzianka  lay  on  the  heights  that  shut  in 
the  swamp  of  the  Beresina.  The  colonel  set  labourers 
to  work  to  make  a  channel  to  resemble  the  greedy  river 
that  had  swallowed  up  the  treasures  of  France  and 
Napoleon's  army.  By  the  help  of  his  memories,  Philip 
reconstructed  on  his  own  lands  the  bank  where  General 
Eble  had  built  his  bridges.  He  drove  in  piles,  and  then  set 
fire  to  them,  so  as  to  reproduce  the  charred  and  blackened 
balks  of  timber  that  on  either  side  of  the  river  told  the 
stragglers  that  their  retreat  to  France  had  been  cut  off. 
He  had  materials  collected  like  the  fragments  out  of 
which  his  comrades  in  misfortune  had  made  the  raft  ;  his 
park  was  laid  waste  to  complete  the  illusion  on  which  his 
last  hopes  were  founded.  He  ordered  ragged  uniforms 
and  clothing  for  several  hundred  peasants.  Huts  and 
bivouacs  and  batteries  were  raised  and  burned  down.  In 
short,  he  omitted  no  device  that  could  reproduce  that 
most  hideous  of  all  scenes.     He  succeeded.    When,  in  the 


Farewell  243 

earliest  days  of  December,  snow  covered  the  earth  with  a 
thick  white  mantle,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  the 
Beresina  itself.  The  mimic  Russia  was  so  startlingly 
real,  that  several  of  his  old  comrades  recognised  the  scene 
of  their  past  sufferings.  M.  de  Sucy  kept  the  secret  of 
the  drama  to  be  enacted  with  this  tragical  backgroimd, 
but  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  mad  freak  in  several  circles  of 
society  in  Paris. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  month  of  January  1 820,  the 
colonel  drove  over  to  the  Forest  of  I'Isle-Adam  in  a 
carriage  like  the  one  in  which  M.  and  Mme.  de  Vandières 
had  driven  from  Moscow  to  Studzianka.  The  horses 
closely  resembled  that  other  pair  that  he  had  risked  his 
life  to  bring  from  the  Russian  lines.  He  himself  wore 
the  grotesque  and  soiled  clothes,  accoutrements,  and  cap 
that  he  had  worn  on  the  29th  of  November  181 2.  He 
had  even  allowed  his  hair  and  beard  to  grow,  and 
neglected  his  appearance,  that  no  detail  might  be  lacking 
to  recall  the  scene  in  all  its  horror. 

'  I  guessed  what  you  meant  to  do,'  cried  M.  Fanjat, 
when  he  saw  the  colonel  dismount.  *  If  you  mean  your 
plan  to  succeed,  do  not  let  her  see  you  in  that  carriage. 
This  evening  I  will  give  my  niece  a  little  laudanum,  and 
while  she  sleeps,  we  will  dress  her  in  such  clothes  as  she 
wore  at  Studzianka,  and  put  her  in  your  travelling- 
carriage.     I  will  follow  you  in  a  berline.' 

Soon  after  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  young 
Countess  was  lifted  into  the  carriage,  laid  on  the  cushions, 
and  wrapped  in  a  coarse  blanket.  A  few  peasants  held 
torches  while  this  strange  elopement  was  arranged. 

A  sudden  cry  rang  through  the  silence  of  night,  and 
Philip  and  the  doctor,  turning,  saw  Geneviève.  She  had 
come  out  half-dressed  from  the  low  room  where  she 
slept. 

*■  Farewell,  farewell  ;  it  is  all  over,  farewell  !  '  she  called, 
crying  bitterly. 

'  Why,  Geneviève,  what  is  it  ?  '  asked  M.  Fanjat, 


244  Farewell 

Geneviève  shook  her  head  despairingly,  raised  her  arm 
to  heaven,  looked  at  the  carriage,  uttered  a  long  snarling 
sound,  and  with  evident  signs  of  profound  terror,  slunk 
in  again. 

*  'Tis  a  good  omen,'  cried  the  colonel.  *  The  girl  is 
sorry  to  lose  her  companion.  Very  likely  she  sees  that 
Stéphanie  is  about  to  recover  her  reason.' 

'  God  grant  it  may  be  so  !  '  answered  M.  Fanjat,  who 
seemed  to  be  afFected  by  this  incident.  Since  insanity 
had  interested  him,  he  had  known  several  cases  in  which 
a  spirit  of  prophecy  and  the  gift  of  second  sight  had  been 
accorded  to  a  disordered  brain — two  faculties  which 
many  travellers  tell  us  are  also  found  among  savage  tribes. 

So  it  happened  that,  as  the  colonel  had  foreseen  and 
arranged,  Stéphanie  travelled  across  the  mimic  Beresina 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  was  awakened  by  an 
explosion  of  rockets  about  a  hundred  paces  from  the  scene 
of  action.  It  was  a  signal.  Hundreds  of  peasants  raised 
a  terrible  clamour,  like  the  despairing  shouts  that  startled 
the  Russians  when  twenty  thousand  stragglers  learned 
that  by  their  own  fault  they  were  delivered  over  to 
death  or  to  slavery. 

When  the  Countess  heard  the  report  and  the  cries  that 
followed,  she  sprang  out  of  the  carriage,  and  rushed  in 
frenzied  anguish  over  the  snow-covered  plain  ;  she  saw 
the  burned  bivouacs  and  the  fatal  raft  about  to  be 
launched  on  a  frozen  Beresina.  She  saw  Major  Philip 
brandishing  his  sabre  among  the  crowd.  The  cry  that 
broke  from  Mme.  de  Vandières  made  the  blood  run 
cold  in  the  veins  of  all  who  heard  it.  She  stood  face  to 
face  with  the  colonel,  who  watched  her  with  a  beating 
heart.  At  first  she  stared  blankly  at  the  strange  scene 
about  her,  then  she  reflected.  For  an  instant,  brief  as  a 
lightning  flash,  there  was  the  same  quick  gaze  and  total 
lack  of  comprehension  that  we  see  in  the  bright  eyes  of  a 
bird  ;  then  she  passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead  with 
the  intelligent  expression  of  a  thinking  being  j  she  looked 


Farewell  245 

round  on  the  memories  that  had  taken  substantial  form, 
into  the  past  life  that  had  been  transported  into  her 
present  ;  she  turned  her  face  to  Philip — and  saw  him  ! 
An  awed  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd.  The  colonel 
breathed  hard,  but  dared  not  speak  ;  tears  filled  the 
doctor's  eyes.  A  faint  colour  overspread  Stephanie's 
beautiful  face,  deepening  slowly,  till  at  last  she  glowed 
Hke  a  girl  radiant  with  youth.  Still  the  bright  flush 
grew.  Life  and  joy,  kindled  within  her  at  the  blaze  of 
intelligence,  swept  through  her  like  leaping  flames.  A 
convulsive  tremor  ran  from  her  feet  to  her  heart.  But 
all  these  tokens,  which  flashed  on  the  sight  in  a  moment, 
gathered  and  gained  consistence,  as  it  were,  when 
Stephanie's  eyes  gleamed  with  heavenly  radiance,  the 
light  of  a  soul  within.  She  lived,  she  thought  !  She 
shuddered — was  it  with  fear  ?  God  Himself  unloosed  a 
second  time  the  tongue  that  had  been  bound  by  death, 
and  set  His  fire  anew  in  the  extinguished  soul.  The 
electric  torrent  of  the  human  will  vivified  the  body 
whence  it  had  so  long  been  absent. 
'  Stéphanie  !  '  the  colonel  cried. 

*  Oh  !  it  is  Philip  !  '  said  the  poor  Countess. 

She  fled  to  the  trembling  arms  held  out  towards  her, 
and  the  embrace  of  the  two  lovers  frightened  those  who 
beheld  it.     Stéphanie  burst  into  tears. 

Suddenly  the  tears  ceased  to  flow  ;  she  lay  in  his  arms 
a  dead  weight,  as  if  stricken  by  a  thunderbolt,  and  said 
faintly — 

*  Farewell,  Philip  !  ...  I  love  you  .  .  .  ferewell  !  ' 
'  She  is  dead  !  '  cried  the  colonel,  unclasping  his  arms. 
The  old  doctor  received  the  lifeless  body  of  his  niece 

in  his  arms  as  a  young  man  might  have  done  ;  he  carried 
her  to  a  stack  of  wood  and  set  her  down.  He  looked  at 
her  face,  and  laid  a  feeble  hand,  tremulous  with  agitation, 
upon  her  heart — it  beat  no  longer. 

*  Can  it  really  be  so  ?  '  he  said,  looking  from  the 
colonel,  who  stood  there  motionless,  to  Stephanie's  face. 


246  Farewell 

Death  had  invested  it  with  a  radiant  beauty,  a  transient 
aureole,  the  pledge,  it  may  be,  of  a  glorious  life  to  come. 

*  Yes,  she  is  dead.' 

'  Oh,  but  that  smile  !  '  cried  Philip  ;  *  only  see  that 
smile.     Is  it  possible  ?  ' 

'  She  has  grown  cold  already,'  answered  M.  Fanjat. 

M.  de  Sucy  made  a  few  strides  to  tear  himself  from 
the  sight  ;  then  he  stopped,  and  whistled  the  air  that 
the  mad  Stéphanie  had  understood  ;  and  when  he  saw 
that  she  did  not  rise  and  hasten  to  him,  he  walked  away, 
staggering  like  a  drunken  man,  still  whistling,  but  he 
did  not  turn  again. 

In  society  General  de  Sucy  is  looked  upon  as  very 
agreeable,  and  above  all  things,  as  very  lively  and  amus- 
ing. Not  very  long  ago  a  lady  complimented  him  upon 
his  good  humour  and  equable  temper. 

'  Ah  !  madame,'  he  answered,  '  I  pay  very  dearly  for 
my  merriment  in  the  evening  if  I  am  alone.' 

*  Then,  you  are  never  alone,  I  suppose.' 

*  No,'  he  answered,  smiling. 

If  a  keen  observer  of  human  nature  could  have  seen 
the  look  that  Sucy's  face  wore  at  that  moment,  he  would, 
without  doubt,  have  shuddered. 

*  Why  do  you  not  marry  ?  '  the  lady  asked  (she  had 
several  daughters  of  her  own  at  a  boarding-school). 
*  You  are  wealthy  ;  you  belong  to  an  old  and  noble 
house  ;  you  are  clever  ;  you  have  a  future  before  you  j 
everything  smiles  upon  you.' 

*  Yes,'  he  answered  ;  *  one  smile  is  killing  me ' 

On  the  morrow  the  lady  heard  with  amazement  that 

M.  de  Sucy  had   shot  himself  through  the  head   that 
night. 

The  fashionable  world  discussed  the  extraordinary 
news  in  divers  ways,  and  each  had  a  theory  to  account 
for  it  ;  play,  love,  ambition,  irregularities  in  private  life, 
according  to  the  taste  of  the  speaker,  explained  the  last 


Farewell  247 

act  of  the  tragedy  begun  in  1812.  Two  men  alone,  a 
magistrate  and  an  old  doctor,  knew  that  Monsieur  le 
Comte  de  Sucy  was  one  of  those  souls  unhappy  in  the 
strength  God  gives  to  them  to  enable  them  to  triumph 
daily  in  a  ghastly  struggle  with  a  mysterious  horror.  If 
for  a  moment  God  withdraws  His  sustaining  hand, 
they  succumb. 

Paris,  March  1850. 


THE  CONSCRIPT 

[  The  inner  selfl  .  .  .  by  a  phenomenon  of  vision 
or  of  locomotion  has  been  known  at  times  to  abolish 
Space  in  its  two  modes  of  Time  and  Distance — 
the  one  intellectual^  the  other  physical. 

— History  of  Louis  Lambert, 

On  a  November  evening  in  the  year  1793  the  principal 
citizens  of  Carentan  w^ere  assembled  in  Mme.  de  Dey's 
draw^ing-room.  Mme.  de  Dey  held  this  reception  every 
night  of  the  w^eek,  but  an  unwonted  interest  attached 
to  this  evening's  gathering,  ovi'ing  to  certain  circum- 
stances v^^hich  w^ould  have  passed  altogether  unnoticed  in 
a  great  city,  though  in  a  small  country  town  they  ex- 
cited the  greatest  curiosity.  For  two  days  before  Mme. 
de  Dey  had  not  been  at  home  to  her  visitors,  and  on  the 
previous  evening  her  door  had  been  shut,  on  the  ground 
of  indisposition.  Two  such  events  at  any  ordinary  time 
would  have  produced  in  Carentan  the  same  sensation 
that  Paris  knows  on  nights  when  there  is  no  performance 
at  the  theatres — existence  is  in  some  sort  incomplete  j 
but  in  those  times  when  the  least  indiscretion  on  the 
part  of  an  aristocrat  might  be  a  matter  of  life  and  death, 
this  conduct  of  Mme.  de  Dey's  was  likely  to  bring  about 
the  most  disastrous  consequences  for  her.  Her  position 
in  Carentan  ought  to  be  made  clear,  if  the  reader  is  to 
appreciate  the  expression  of  keen  curiosity  and  cunning 
fanaticism  on  the  countenances  of  these  Norman  citizens, 
and,  what  is  of  most  importance,  the  part  that  the  lady 

248 


The  Conscript  249 

played  among  them.  Many  a  one  during  the  days  of 
the  Revolution  has  doubtless  passed  through  a  crisis  as 
difficult  as  hers  at  that  moment,  and  the  sympathies  of 
more  than  one  reader  will  fill  in  all  the  colouring  of  the 
picture. 

Mme.  de  Dey  was  the  widow  of  a  Lieutenant-General, 
a  Knight  of  the  Orders  of  Saint  Michael  and  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  She  had  left  the  Court  when  the  Emigra- 
tion began,  and  taken  refuge  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Carentan,  where  she  had  large  estates,  hoping  that  the 
influence  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  would  be  but  little  felt 
there.  Her  calculations,  based  on  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  the  district,  proved  correct.  The  Revolution 
made  little  disturbance  in  Lower  Normandy.  Formerly, 
when  Mme.  de  Dey  had  spent  any  time  in  the  country, 
her  circle  of  acquaintance  had  been  confined  to  the  noble 
families  of  the  district  ;  but  now,  from  politic  motives, 
she  opened  her  house  to  the  principal  citizens  and  to  the 
Revolutionary  authorities  of  the  town,  endeavouring  to 
touch  and  gratify  their  social  pride  without  arousing 
either  hatred  or  jealousy.  Gracious  and  kindly,  pos- 
sessed of  the  indescribable  charm  that  wins  goodwill 
without  loss  of  dignity  or  effort  to  pay  court  to  any,  she 
had  succeeded  in  gaining  universal  esteem  ;  the  discreet 
warnings  of  exquisite  tact  enabled  her  to  steer  a  difficult 
course  among  the  exacting  claims  of  this  mixed  society, 
without  wounding  the  overweening  self-love  of  par- 
venus on  the  one  hand,  or  the  susceptibilities  of  her  old 
friends  on  the  other. 

She  was  about  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  and  still  pre- 
served, not  the  fresh,  high-coloured  beauty  of  the  Basse- 
Normandes,  but  a  fragile  loveliness  of  what  may  be  called 
an  aristocratic  type.  Her  figure  was  lissome  and  slender, 
her  features  delicate  and  clearly  cut  ;  the  pale  face  seemed 
to  light  up  and  live  when  she  spoke  ;  but  there  was  a 
quiet  and  devout  look  in  the  great  dark  eyes,  for  all 
their  graciousness  of  expression — a  look  that  seemed  to 


250  The  Conscript 

say  that  the  springs  of  her  life  lay  without  her  own 
existence. 

In  her  early  girlhood  she  had  been  married  to  an 
elderly  and  jealous  soldier.  Her  false  position  in  the 
midst  of  a  gay  Court  had  doubtless  done  something  to 
bring  a  veil  of  sadness  over  a  face  that  must  once  have 
been  bright  with  the  charms  of  quick-pulsed  life  and 
love.  She  had  been  compelled  to  set  constant  restraint 
upon  her  frank  impulses  and  emotions  at  an  age  when  a 
woman  feels  rather  than  thinks,  and  the  depths  of  passion 
in  her  heart  had  never  been  stirred.  In  this  lay  the 
secret  of  her  greatest  charm,  a  youthfulness  of  the  inmost 
soul,  betrayed  at  times  by  her  face,  and  a  certain  tinge 
of  innocent  wistfulness  in  her  ideas.  She  was  reserved 
in  her  demeanour,  but  in  her  bearing  and  in  the  tones 
of  her  voice  there  was  still  something  that  told  of  girlish 
longings  directed  toward  a  vague  future.  Before  very 
long  the  least  susceptible  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  yet 
stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  her  dignity  and  high-bred 
manner.  Her  great  soul,  strengthened  by  the  cruel 
ordeals  through  which  she  had  passed,  seemed  to  set  her 
too  far  above  the  ordinary  level,  and  these  men  weighed 
themselves,  and  instinctively  felt  that  they  were  found 
wanting.  Such  a  nature  demanded  an  exalted  pas- 
sion. 

Moreover,  Mme.  de  Dey's  affections  were  concentrated 
in  one  sentiment — a  mother's  love  for  her  son.  All  the 
happiness  and  joy  that  she  had  not  known  as  a  wife,  she 
had  found  later  in  her  boundless  love  for  him.  The 
coquetry  of  a  mistress,  the  jealousy  of  a  wife  mingled 
with  the  pure  and  deep  affection  of  a  mother.  She  was 
miserable  when  they  were  apart,  and  nervous  about  him 
while  he  was  away  ;  she  could  never  see  enough  of  him, 
and  lived  through  and  for  him  alone.  Some  idea  of  the 
strength  of  this  tie  may  be  conveyed  to  the  masculine 
understanding  by  adding  that  this  was  not  only  Mme. 
de  Dey's  only  son,  but  all  she  had  of  kith  or  kin  in  the 


The  Conscript  251 

world,  the  one  human  being  on  earth  bound  to  her  by 
all  the  fears  and  hopes  and  joys  of  her  life. 

The  late  Comte  de  Dey  was  the  last  of  his  race,  and 
she,  his  wife,  was  the  sole  heiress  and  descendant  of  her 
house.  So  worldly  ambitions  and  family  considerations, 
as  well  as  the  noblest  cravings  of  the  soul,  combined  to 
heighten  in  the  Countess  a  sentiment  that  is  strong  in 
every  woman's  heart.  The  child  was  all  the  dearer, 
because  only  with  infinite  care  had  she  succeeded  in 
rearing  him  to  man's  estate  ;  medical  science  had  pre- 
dicted his  death  a  score  of  times,  but  she  had  held  fast  to 
her  presentiments  and  her  hopes,  and  had  known  the 
inexpressible  joy  of  watching  him  pass  safely  through  the 
perils  of  infancy,  of  seeing  his  constitution  strengthen  in 
spite  of  the  decrees  of  the  Faculty. 

Thanks  to  her  constant  care,  the  boy  had  grown  up 
and  developed  so  favourably,  that  at  twenty  years  of  age 
he  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  accomplished  gentle- 
men at  the  Court  of  Versailles.  One  final  happiness  that 
does  not  always  crown  a  mother's  efforts  was  hers — her 
son  worshipped  her  j  and  between  these  two  there  was 
the  deep  sympathy  of  kindred  souls.  If  they  had  not 
been  bound  to  each  other  already  by  a  natural  and  sacred 
tie,  they  would  instinctively  have  felt  for  each  other  a 
friendship  that  is  rarely  met  with  between  two  men. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  the  young  Count  had  received 
an  appointment  as  sub-lieutenant  in  a  regiment  of 
dragoons,  and  had  made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  follow 
the  emigrant  Princes  into  exile. 

Then  Mme.  de  Dey  faced  the  dangers  of  her  cruel 
position.  She  was  rich,  noble,  and  the  mother  of  an 
Emigrant.  With  the  one  desire  to  look  after  her  son's 
great  fortune,  she  had  denied  herself  the  happiness  of 
being  with  him  ;  and  when  she  read  the  rigorous  laws  in 
virtue  of  which  the  Republic  was  daily  confiscating  the 
property  of  Emigrants  at  Carentan,  she  congratulated 
herself  on   the  courageous  course  that  she  had  taken. 


252  The  Conscript 

Was  she  not  keeping  watch  over  the  wealth  of  her  son 
at  the  risk  of  her  life  ?  Later,  when  news  came  of  the 
horrible  executions  ordered  by  the  Convention,  she  slept, 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  her  own  treasure  was  in 
safety,  out  of  reach  of  peril,  far  from  the  scaffolds  of  the 
Revolution.  She  loved  to  think  that  she  had  followed 
the  best  course,  that  she  had  saved  her  darling  and  her 
darling's  fortunes  j  and  to  this  secret  thought  she  made 
such  concessions  as  the  misfortunes  of  the  times 
demanded,  without  compromising  her  dignity  or  her 
aristocratic  tenets,  and  enveloped  her  sorrows  in  reserve 
and  mystery.  She  had  foreseen  the  difficulties  that  would 
beset  her  at  Carentan.  Did  she  not  tempt  the  scaffold  by 
the  very  fact  of  going  thither  to  take  a  prominent  place? 
Yet,  sustained  by  a  mother's  courage,  she  succeeded  in 
winning  the  affection  of  the  poor,  ministering  without 
distinction  to  every  one  in  trouble  ;  and  made  herself 
necessary  to  the  well-to-do,  by  providing  amusements 
for  them. 

The  procureur  of  the  commune  might  be  seen  at  her 
house,  the  mayor,  the  president  of  the  '  district,'  and  the 
public  prosecutor,  and  even  the  judges  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary tribunals  went  there.  The  four  first  named 
gentlemen  were  none  of  them  married,  and  each  paid 
court  to  her,  in  the  hope  that  Mme.  de  Dey  would  take 
him  for  her  husband,  eicher  from  fear  of  making  an 
enemy  or  from  a  desire  to  find  a  protector. 

The  public  prosecutor,  once  an  attorney  at  Caen,  and 
the  Countess's  man  of  business,  did  what  he  could  to  in- 
spire love  by  a  system  of  devotion  and  generosity,  a 
dangerous  game  of  cunning  !  He  was  the  most  formid- 
able of  all  her  suitors.  He  alone  knew  the  amount  of  the 
large  fortune  of  his  sometime  client,  and  his  fervour  was 
inevitably  increased  by  the  cupidity  of  greed,  and  by  the 
consciousness  that  he  wielded  an  enormous  power,  the 
power  of  life  and  death  in  the  district.  He  was  still  a 
young  man,  and,  owing  to  the  generosity  of  his  behaviour. 


The  Conscript  253 

IVÎme.  de  Dey  was  unable  as  yet  to  estimate  him  truly. 
But,  in  despite  of  the  danger  of  matching  herself  against 
Korman  cunning,  she  used  all  the  craft  and  inventiveness 
that  Nature  has  bestovi^ed  on  women  to  play  off  the  rival 
suitors  one  against  another.  She  hoped,  by  gaining  time, 
to  emerge  safe  and  sound  from  her  difficulties  at  last  ; 
for  at  that  time  Royalists  in  the  provinces  flattered 
themselves  with  a  hope,  daily  renewed,  that  the  morrow 
would  see  the  end  of  the  Revolution — a  conviction  that 
proved  fatal  to  many  of  them. 

In  spite  of  difficulties,  the  Countess  had  maintained 
her  independence  with  considerable  skill  until  the  day, 
when,  by  an  inexplicable  want  of  prudence,  she  took 
occasion  to  close  her  salon.  So  deep  and  sincere  was  the 
interest  that  she  inspired,  that  those  who  usually  filled 
her  drawing-room  felt  a  lively  anxiety  when  the  news 
was  spread  ;  then,  with  the  frank  curiosity  characteristic 
of  provincial  manners,  they  went  to  inquire  into  the 
rrJsfortune,  grief,  or  illness  that  had  befallen  Mme.  de 
Dey. 

To  all  these  questions,  Brigitte,  the  housekeeper, 
answered  with  the  same  formula  :  her  mistress  was  keep- 
ing her  room,  and  would  see  no  one,  not  even  her 
own  servants.  The  almost  claustral  lives  of  dwellers  in 
small  towns  fosters  a  habit  of  analysis  and  conjectural 
explanation  of  the  business  of  everybody  else  j  so  strong 
is  it,  that  when  every  one  had  exclaimed  over  poor  Mme. 
de  Dey  (without  knowing  whether  the  lady  was  over- 
come by  joy  or  sorrow),  each  one  began  to  inquire  into 
the  causes  of  her  sudden  seclusion. 

'  If  she  were  ill,  she  would  have  sent  for  the  doctor,' 
said  gossip  number  one  ;  '  now  the  doctor  has  been  play- 
ing chess  in  my  house  all  day.  He  said  to  me,  laughing, 
that  in  these  days  there  is  only  one  disease,  and  that, 
unluckily,  it  is  incurable.' 

The  joke  was  hazarded  discreetly.  Women  and  men, 
elderly  folk  and  young  girls,  forthwith  betook  themselves 


2,54  The  Conscript 

to  the  vast  fields  of  conjecture.  Every  one  imagined  that 
there  was  some  secret  in  it,  and  every  head  was  busy  with 
the  secret.  Next  day  the  suspicions  became  malignant. 
Every  one  lives  in  public  in  a  small  town,  and  the  women- 
kind  were  the  first  to  find  out  that  Brigitte  had  laid  in 
an  extra  stock  of  provisions.  The  thing  could  not  be 
disputed.  Brigitte  had  been  seen  in  the  market-place 
betimes  that  morning,  and,  wonderful  to  relate,  she  had 
bought  the  one  hare  to  be  had.  The  whole  town  knew 
that  Mme.  de  Dey  did  not  care  for  game.  The  hare 
became  a  starting-point  for  endless  conjectures. 

Elderly  gentlemen,  taking  their  constitutional,  noticed 
a  sort  of  suppressed  bustle  in  the  Countess's  house  ;  the 
symptoms  were  the  more  apparent  becaus£_tiie_^  servants 
were  at  evident  pains  to  conceal  themr^;^he  man-servant 
was  beating  a  carpet  in  the  garden^  Only  yesterday  no 
one  would  have  remarked  the  fact,  but  to-day  everybody 
began  to  build  romances  upon  that  harmless  piece  of 
household  stuff.     Every  one  had  a  version. 

On  the  following  day,  that  on  which  Mme.  de  Dey 
gave  out  that  she  was  not  well,  the  magnates  of  Carentan 
went  to  spend  the  evening  at  the  mayor's  brother's  house. 
He  was  a  retired  merchant,  a  married  man,  a  strictly 
honourable  soul  ;  every  one  respected  him,  and  the 
Countess  held,  him  in  hip:h  regard..'  There  all  the  rich 
widow's  suitors  were  tarn  to  invent  more  or  less  probable 
fictions,  each  one  thinking  the  while  how  to  turn  to  his 
own  advantage  the  secret  that  compelled  her  to  com- 
promise herself  in  such  a  manner. 

The  public  prosecutor  spun  out  a  whole  drama  to 
bring  Mme.  de  Dey's  son  to  her  house  of  a  night.  The 
mayor  had  a  belief  in  a  priest  who  had  refused  the  oath, 
a  refugee  from  La  Vendée  ;  but  this  left  him  not  a  little 
embarrassed  how  to  account  for  the  purchase  of  a  hare 
on  a  Friday.  The  president  of  the  district  had  strong 
leanings  towards  a  Chouan  chief,  or  a  Vendean  leader 
hotly  pursued.     Others  voted  for  a  noble  escaped  from 


The  Conscript  255 

the  prisons  of  Paris.  In  short,  one  and  all  suspected 
that  the  Countess  had  been  guilty  of  some  piece  of 
generosity  that  the  law  of  those  days  defined  as  a  crime, 
an  offence  that  was  like  to  bring  her  to  the  scaffold. 
The  public  prosecutor,  moreover,  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
that  they  must  hush  the  matter  up,  and  try  to  save  the 
unfortunate  lady  from  the  abyss  towards  which  she  was 
nasteniijg.-- — -— — 

"Hf  you  spread  reports  about,'  he  added,  'I  shall  be 
obliged  to  take  cognisance  of  the  matter,  and  to  search 
the  house,  and  then  !   .   .  .' 

He  said  no  more,  but  every  one  understood  what  was 
left  unsaid. 

The  Countess's  real  friends  were  so  much  alarmed  for 
her,  that  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  the  'Procureur 
Syndic  of  the  commune  made  his  wife  write  a  few  lines 
to  persuade  Mme.  de  Dey  to  hold  her  reception  as  usual 
that  evening.  The  old  merchant  took  a  bolder  step. 
He  called  that  morning  upon  the  lady.  Strong  in  the 
thought  of  the  service  he  meant  to  do  her,  he  insisted 
that  he  must  see  Mme.  de  Dey,  and  was  amazed  beyond 
expression  to  find  her  out  in  the  garden,  busy  gathering 
the  last  autumn  flowers  in  her  borders  to  fill  the  vases. 

*  She  has  given  refuge  to  her  lover,  no  doubt,'  thought 
the  old  man,  struck  with  pity  for  the  charming  woman 
before  him. 

The  Countess's  face  wore  a  strange  look,  that  con- 
firmed his  suspicions.  Deeply  moved  by  the  devotion  so 
natural  to  women,  but  that  always  touches  us,  because 
all  men  are  flattered  by  the  sacrifices  that  any  woman 
makes  for  any  one  of  them,  the  merchant  told  the 
Countess  of  the  gossip  that  was  circulating  in  the  town, 
and  showed  her  the  danger  that  she  was  running.  He 
wound  up  at  last  with  saying  that  '  if  there  are  some  of 
our  public  functionaries  who  are  sufficiently  ready  to 
pardon  a  piece  of  heroism  on  your  part  so  long  as  it  is 
a  priest  that  you  wish  to  save,  no  one  will  show  you  any 


256  The  Conscript 

mercy  if  it  is  discovered  that  you  are  sacrificing  yourself 
to  the  dictates  of  your  heart.' 

At  these  words  Mme.  de  Dey  gazed  at  her  visitor 
with  a  wild  excitement  in  her  manner  that  made  him 

tremble,  old  though  he  was.^ 

'  "^  *  Uome  m^'  oKe  saie^alghTgnim  by  the  hand  to  bring 
him  to  her  room,  and  as  soon  as  she  had  assured  herself 
that  they  were  alone,  she  drew  a  soiled,  torn  letter  from 
her  bodice. — '  Read  it  !  '  she  cried,  with  a  violent  effort 
to  pronounce  the  words. 

She  dropped  as  if  exhausted  into  her  armchair.  While 
the  old  merchant  looked  for  his  spectacles  and  wiped 
them,  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  for  the  first  time  looked 
at  him  with  curiosity  ;  then,  in  an  uncertain  voice,  '  I 
trust  in  you,'  she  said  softly. 

*Why  did  I  come  but  to  share  in  your  crime?'  the 
old  merchant  said  simply. 

She  trembled.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  come 
to  the  little  town  her  soul  found  sympathy  in  another 
soul.  A  sudden  light  dawned  meantime  on  the  old 
merchant  ;  he  understood  the  Countess's  joy  and  her 
prosuatkm. 

Her  son  had  taken  part  in  the  Granville  expedition  5 
he  wrote  to  his  mother  from  his  prison,  and  the  letter 
brought  her  a  sad,  sweet  hope.  Feeling  no  doubts  as  to 
his  means  of  escape,  he  wrote  that  within  three  days  he 
was  sure  to  reach  her,  disguised.  The  same  letter  that 
brought  these  weighty  tidings  was  full  of  heartrending 
farewells  in  case  the  writer  should  not  be  in  Carentan  by 
the  evening  of  the  third  day,  and  he  implored  his  mother 
to  send  a  considerable  sum  of  money  by  the  bearer,  who 
had  gone  through  dangers  innumerable  to  deliver  it. 
The  paper  shook  in  the  old  man's  hands. 

*  And  to-day  is  the  third  day  !  '  cried  Mme.  de  Dey. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet,  took  back  the  letter,  and  walked 
up  and  down. 

*You  have  set  to  work  imprudently,'  the  merchant 


The  Conscript  257 

remarked,    addressing    her.      '  Why    did    you    buy    pro- 


visions f 

'Why,  he  may  come  in  dying  of  hunger,  worn  out 
with  fatigue,  and '     She  broke  off. 

'  I  am  sure  of  my  brother,'  the  old  merchant  went  on  j 
*I  will  engage  him  in  your  interests.' 

The  merchant  in  this  crisis  recovered  his  old  business 
shrewdness,  and  the  advice  that  he  gave  Mme.  de  Dey 
v/as  full  of  prudence  and  wisdom.  After  the  two  had 
agreed  together  as  to  what  they  were  to  do  and  say,  the 
old  merchant  went  on  various  ingenious  pretexts  to  pay 
visits  to  the  principal  houses  of  Carentan,  announcing 
wherever  he  went  that  he  had  just  been  to  see  Mme.  de 
Dey,  and  that,  in  spite  of  her  indisposition,  she  would 
receive  that  evening.  Matching  his  shrewdness  against 
Norman  wits  in  the  cross-examination  he  under- 
went in  every  family  as  to  the  Countess's  complaint, 
he  succeeded  in  putting  almost  every  one  who  took 
an  interest  in  the  mysterious  affair  upon  the  wrong 
scent. 

His  very  first  call  worked  wonders.  He  told,  in  the 
hearing  of  a  gouty  old  lady,  how  that  Mme.  de  Dey  had 
all  but  died  of  an  attack  of  gout  in  the  stomach  ;  how 
that  the  illustrious  Tronchin  had  recommended  her  in 
such  a  case  to  put  the  skin  from  a  live  hare  on  her  chest, 
to  stop  in  bed,  and  keep  perfectly  still.  The  Countess, 
he  said,  had  lain  in  danger  of  her  life  for  the  past  two 
days  ;  but  after  carefully  following  out  Tronchin's  singular 
prescription,  she  was  now  sufficiently  recovered  to  receive 
visitors  that  evening. 

This  tale  had  an  immense  success  in  Carentan.  The 
local  doctor,  a  Royalist  in  petto^  added  to  its  effect  by 
gravely  discussing  the  specific.  Suspicion,  nevertheless, 
had  taken  too  deep  root  in  a  few  perverse  or  philosophical 
minds  to  be  entirely  dissipated  ;  so  it  fell  out  that  those 
who  had  the  right  of  entry  into  Mme.  de  Dey's  drawing- 
room  hurried  thither  at  an  early  hour,  some  to  watch 

R 


258  The  Conscript 

her  face,  some  out  of  friendship,  but  the  more  part 
attracted  by  the  fame  of  the  marvellous  cure. 

They  found  the  Countess  seated  in  a  corner  of  the 
great  chimneypiece  in  her  room,  which  was  almost  as 
modestly  furnished  as  similar  apartments  in  Carentan  j 
for  she  had  given  up  the  enjoyment  of  luxuries  to  which 
she  had  formerly  been  accustomed,  for  fear  of  offending 
the  narrow  prejudices  of  her  guests,  and  she  had  made 
no  changes  in  her  house.  The  floor  was  not  even 
polished.  She  had  left  the  old  sombre  hangings  on  the 
walls,  had  kept  the  old-fashioned  country  furniture, 
burned  tallow  candles,  had  fallen  in  with  the  ways  of  the 
place  and  adopted  provincial  life  without  flinching  before 
its  cast-iron  narrowness,  its  most  disagreeable  hardships  ; 
but  knowing  that  her  guests  would  forgive  her  for  any 
Drodigality_jhâl„,rnn durpH  lû^jjieir  comfort,  she  left 
notÏÏing  undone  where  their  personal  enjoyment  was 
concerned  j  her  dinners,  for  instance,  were  excellent. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  affect  avarice  to  recommend 
herself  to  these  sordid  natures  j  and  had  the  ingenuity  to 
make  it  appear  that  certain  concessions  to  luxury  had 
been  made  at  the  instance  of  others,  to  whom  she  had 
graciously  yielded. 

Towards  seven  o'clock  that  evening,  therefore,  the 
nearest  approach  to  polite  society  that  Carentan  could 
boast  was  assembled  in  Mme.  de  Dey's  drawing-room,  in 
a  wide  circle,  about  the  fire.  The  old  merchant's 
sympathetic  glances  sustained  the  mistress  of  the  house 
through  this  ordeal  ;  with  wonderful  strength  of  mind, 
she  underwent  the  curious  scrutiny  of  her  guests,  and 
bore  with  their  trivial  prosings.  Every  time  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  door,  at  every  sound  of  footsteps  in  the 
street,  she  hid  her  agitation  by  raising  questions  of 
absorbing  interest  to  the  countryside.  She  led  the  con- 
versation on  to  the  burning  topic  of  the  quality  of  various 
ciders,  and  was  so  well  seconded  by  her  friend  who 
shared  her  secret,  that  her  guests  almost  forgot  to  watch 


The  Conscript  259 

her,  and  her  face  wore  its  wonted  look  ;  her  self-possession 
was  unshaken.  The  public  prosecutor  and  one  of  the 
judges  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal  kept  silence,  how- 
ever ;  noting  the  slightest  change  that  flickered  over  her 
features,  listening  through  the  noisy  talk  to  every  sound 
in  the  house.  Several  times  they  put  awkward  questions, 
which  the  Countess  answered  with  wonderful  presence 
of  mind.     So  brave  is  a  mother's  heart  ! 

Mme.  de  Dey  had  drawn  her  visitors  into  little  groups, 
had  made  parties  of  whist,  boston,  or  reversis,  and  sat 
talking  with  some  of  the  young  people  ;  she  seemed  to 
be  living  completely  in  the  present  moment,  and  played 
her  part  like  a  consummate  actress.  She  elicited  a  sug- 
gestion of  loto,  and  saying  that  no  one  else  knew  wherr 
to  find  the  game,  she  left  the  room. 

'  My  good  Brigitte,  I  cannot  breathe  down  there  !  '  she 
cried,  brushing  away  the  tears  that  sprang  to  her  eyes 
that  glittered  with  fever,  sorrow,  and  impatience. — She 
had  gone  up  to  her  son's  room,  and  was  looking  round 
it.  '  He  does  not  come,'  she  said.  '  Here  I  can  breathe 
and  live.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  he  will  be  here,  for 
he  is  alive,  I  am  sure  that  he  is  alive  !  my  heart  tells  me 
so.  Do  you  hear  nothing,  Brigitte  ?  Oh  !  I  would  give 
the  rest  of  my  life  to  know  whether  he  is  still  in  prison 
or  tramping  across  the  country.  I  would  rather  not 
think.' 

Once  more  she  looked  to  see  that  everything  was  in 
order.  A  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  the  shutters 
were  carefully  closed,  the  furniture  shone  with  cleanli- 
ness, the  bed  had  been  made  after  a  fashion  that  showed 
that  Brigitte  and  the  Countess  had  given  their  minds  to 
every  trifling  detail.  It  was  impossible  not  to  read  her 
hopes  in  the  dainty  and  thoughtful  preparations  about 
the  room  ;  love  and  a  mother's  tenderest  caresses  seemed 
to  pervade  the  air  in  the  scent  of  flowers.  None  but  a 
mother  could  have  foreseen  the  requirements  of  a  soldier 
and    arranged   so   completely   for  their  satisfaction.      A 


260  The  Conscript 

dainty  meal,  the  best  of  wine,  clean  linen,  slippers — no 
necessary,  no  comfort,  was  lacking  for  the  weary  traveller, 
and  all  the  delights  of  home  heaped  upon  him  should 
reveal  his  mother's  love. 

*Oh,  Brigitte  !  .  .  .'  cried  the  Countess,  with  a  heart- 
rending inflexion  in  her  voice.  She  drew  a  chair  to  the 
table  as  if  to  strengthen  her  illusions  and  realise  her 
longings. 

'  Ah  !  madame,  he  is  coming.  He  is  not  far  otF.  .  .  . 
I  haven't  a  doubt  that  he  is  living  and  on  his  way,' 
Brigitte  answered.  'I  put  a  key  in  the  Bible  and  held 
it  on  my  fingers  while  Cottin  read  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John,  and  the  key  did  not  turn,  madame,' 

'  Is  that  a  certain  sign  ?  '  the  Countess  asked. 

'  Why,  yes,  madame  !  everybody  knows  that.  He  is 
still  alive  ;  I  would  stake  my  salvation  on  it  ;  God 
cannot  be  mistaken.' 

*  If  only  I  could  see  him  here  in  the  house,  in  spite  of 
the  danger.' 

'  Poor  Monsieur  Auguste  !  '  cried  Brigitte  j  *  I  expect 
he  is  tramping  along  the  lanes  !  ' 

'  And  that  is  eight  o'clock  striking  now  !  '  cried  the 
Countess  in  terror. 

She  was  afraid  that  she  had  been  too  long  in  the  room 
where  she  felt  sure  that  her  son  was  alive  ;  all  those  pre- 
parations made  for  him  meant  that  he  was  ahve.  She 
went  down,  but  she  lingered  a  moment  in  the  peristyle 
for  any  sound  that  might  waken  the  sleeping  echoes  ot 
the  town.  She  smiled  at  Brigitte's  husband,  who  was 
standing  there  on  guard  j  the  man's  eyes  looked  stupid 
with  the  strain  of  listening  to  the  faint  sounds  of  the 
night.  She  stared  into  the  darkness,  seeing  her  son  in 
every  shadow  everywhere  ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  with  an 
assumption  of  high  spirits,  and  began  to  play  at  loto  with 
the  little  girls.  But  from  time  to  time  she  complained 
of  feeling  unwell,  and  went  to  sit  in  her  great  chair  by 


The  Conscript  261 

the  fireside.  So  things  went  in  Mme.  de  Dey's  house 
and  in  the  minds  of  those  beneath  her  roof. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  road  from  Paris  to  Cherbourg,  a 
young  man,  dressed  in  the  inevitable  brown  carmagnole 
of  those  days,  was  plodding  his  way  towards  Carentan. 
When  the  first  levies  were  made,  there  was  little  or  no 
discipline  kept  up.  The  exigencies  of  the  moment 
scarcely  admitted  of  soldiers  being  equipped  at  once,  and 
it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  the  roads  thronged 
with  conscripts  in  their  ordinary  clothes.  The  young 
fellows  went  ahead  of  their  company  to  the  next  halting- 
place,  or  lagged  behind  it  ;  it  depended  upon  their  fitness 
to  bear  the  fatigues  of  a  long  march.  This  particular 
wayfarer  was  some  considerable  way  in  advance  of  a 
company  of  conscripts  on  the  way  to  Cherbourg,  whom 
the  mayor  was  expecting  to  arrive  every  hour,  for  it  was 
his  duty  to  distribute  their  billets.  The  young  man's  foot- 
steps were  still  firm  as  he  trudged  along,  and  his  bearing 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  rough 
life  of  a  soldier.  The  moon  shone  on  the  pasture-land 
about  Carentan,  but  he  had  noticed  great  masses  of  white 
cloud  that  were  about  to  scatter  showers  of  snow  over 
the  country,  and  doubtless  the  fear  of  being  overtaken 
by  a  storm  had  quickened  his  pace  in  spite  of  his  weari- 
ness. 

The  wallet  on  his  back  was  almost  empty,  and  he 
carried  a  stick  in  his  hand,  cut  from  one  of  the  high, 
thick  box-hedges  that  surround  most  of  the  farms  in 
Lower  Normandy.  As  the  solitary  wayfarer  came  into 
Carentan,  the  gleaming  moonlit  outlines  of  its  towers 
stood  out  for  a  moment  with  ghostly  effect  against  the 
sky.  He  met  no  one  in  the  silent  streets  that  rang  with 
the  echoes  of  his  own  footsteps,  and  was  obliged  to  ask 
the  way  to  the  mayor's  house  of  a  weaver  who  was 
working  late.  The  magistrate  was  not  far  to  seek,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  conscript  was  sitting  on  a  stone 
bench  in  the  mayor's  porch  waiting  for  his  billet.     He 


262  The  Conscript 

was  sent  for,  however,  and  confronted  with  that  fiinc» 
tionary,  who  scrutinised  him  closely.  The  foot-soldier 
was  a  good-looking  young  man,  who  appeared  to  be  of 
gentle  birth.  There  was  something  aristocratic  in  his 
bearing,  and  signs  in  his  face  of  intelligence  developed 
by  a  good  education. 

'  What  is  your  name  ?  '  asked  the  mayor,  eyeing  him 
shrewdly. 

'Julien  Jussieu,'  answered  the  conscript. 

*  From  ? '  queried  the  official,  and  an   incredulous 

smile  stole  over  his  features. 

'From  Paris.' 

'  Your  comrades  must  be  a  good  way  behind  ?  ' 
remarked  the  Norman  in  sarcastic  tones. 

'  I  am  three  leagues  ahead  of  the  battalion.' 

'  Some  sentiment  attracts  you  to  Carentan,  of  course, 
citizen-conscript,'  said  the  mayor  astutely.  '  All  right, 
all  right  !  '  he  added,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  seeing 
that  the  young  man  was  about  to  speak.  '  We  know 
where  to  send  you.  There,  off  with  you.  Citizen  "Jussieu^ 
and  he  handed  over  the  billet. 

There  was  a  tinge  of  irony  in  the  stress  the  magistrate 
laid  on  the  two  last  words  while  he  held  out  a  billet 
on  Mme.  de  Dey.  The  conscript  read  the  direction 
curiously. 

'  He  knows  quite  well  that  he  has  not  far  to  go,  and 
when  he  gets  outside  he  will  very  soon  cross  the  market- 
place,' said  the  mayor  to  himself,  as  the  other  went  out. 
'  He  is  uncommonly  baJ4.-'  God  guide  him  !  .  .  .  He 
has  an  answer  ready  for  everything.  Yes,  but  if  some- 
body else  had  asked  to  see  his  papers  it  would  have  been 
all  up  with  himj  ' 

The  clocks  in  Carentan  struck  half-past  nine  as  he 
spoke.  Lanterns  were  being  lit  in  Mine,  de  Dey's 
ante-chamber,  servants  were  helping  their  masters  and 
Tiistresses  into  sabots,  greatcoats,  and  calashes.  The 
card-players  settled  their  accounts,  and  everybody  went 


The  Conscript  263 

out  together,  after  the  fashion  of  all  little  country 
towns. 

'  It  looks  as  if  the  prosecutor  meant  to  stop,'  said  a 
lady,  who  noticed  that  that  important  personage  was  not 
in  the  group  in  the  market-place,  where  they  all  took 
leave  of  one  another  before  going  their  separate  ways 
home.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  redoubtable 
functionary  was  alone  with  the  Countess,  who  waited 
trembling  till  he  should  go.  There  was  something 
appaUing  in  their  long  silence. 

'Citoyenne,'  said  he  at  last,  'I  am  here  to  see  that  the 
laws  of  the  Republic  are  carried  out ' 

Mme.  de  Dey  shuddered. 

'  Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ?  ' 

*  Nothing  !  '  she  answered,  in  amazem.ent. 

'  Ah  !  madame,'  cried  the  prosecutor,  sitting  down 
beside  her  and  changing  his  tone.  '  At  this  moment,  for 
lack  of  a  word,  one  of  us — you  or  I — may  carry  our 
heads  to  the  scaffold.  I  have  watched  your  character, 
your  soul,  your  manner,  too  closely  to  share  the  error 
into  which  you  have  managed  to  lead  your  visitors 
to-night.  You  are  expecting  your  son,  I  could  not 
doubt  it.' 

The  Countess  made  an  involuntary  sign  of  denial, 
but  her  face  had  grown  white  and  drawn  with  the 
struggle  to  maintain  the  composure  that  she  did  not  feel, 
and  no  tremor  was  lost  on  the  merciless  prosecutor. 

'  Very  well,'  the  Revolutionary  official  went  on, 
'receive  him  j  but  do  not  let  him  stay  under  your  roof 
after  seven  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  ;  for  to-morrow, 
as  soon  as  it  is  light,  I  shall  come  with  a  denunciation 
that  I  will  have  made  out,  and ' 

She  looked  at  him,  and  the  dull  misery  in  her  eyes 
v/ould  have  softened  a  tiger. 

'  I  will  make  it  clear  that  the  denunciation  was  false 
by  making  a  thorough  search,'  he  went  on  in  a  gentle 
voice  i  '  my  report  shall  be  such  that  you  will  be  safe 


264  The  Conscript 

from  any  subsequent  suspicion.  I  shall  make  mention  of 
your  patriotic  gifts,  your  civism,  and  all  of  us  will  be 
safe.' 

Mme.  de  Dey,  fearful  of  a  trap,  sat  motionless,  her  face 
afire,  her  tongue  frozen.  A  knock  at  the  door  rang 
through  the  house. 

'  Oh  !  .  .  .'  cried  the  terrified  mother,  falling  upon 
her  knees;  'save  him  !  save  him  !  ' 

'Yes,  let  us  save  him  !'  returned  the  public  prosecutor, 
and  his  eyes  grew  bright  as  he  looked  at  her,  '  if  it  costs 
us  our  lives  !  ' 

'  Lost  !  '  she  wailed.  The  prosecutor  raised  her 
politely. 

'  Madam,'  said  he  with  a  flourish  of  eloquence,  '  to 
your  own  free  will  alone  would  I  owe ' 

'  Madame,  he  is '  cried  Brigitte,  thinking  that  her 

mistress  was  alone.  At  the  sight  of  the  public  prosecutor, 
the  old  servant's  joy-flushed  countenance  became  haggard 
and  impassive. 

'Who  is  it,  Brigitte  ?  '  the  prosecutor  asked  kindly,  as 
if  he  too  were  in  the  secret  of  the  household. 

'A  conscript  that  the  mayor  has  sent  here  for  a  night's 
lodging,'  the  woman  replied,  holding  out  the  billet. 

'  So  it  is,'  said  the  prosecutor,  when  he  had  read  the 
slip  of  paper.     •'  A  battalion  is  coming  here  to-night.' 

And  he  went. 

The  Countess's  need  to  believe  in  the  faith  of  her 
sometime  attorney  was  so  great,  that  she  dared  not 
entertain  any  suspicion  of  htîn.  She  fled  upstairs  j  she 
felt  scarcely  strength  enough  to  stand  ;  she  opened  the 
door,  and  sprang,  half-dead  with  fear,  into  her  son's  arms. 

'  Oh  !  my  child  !  my  child  !  '  she  sobbed,  covering 
him  with  almost  frenzied  kisses. 

'Madame  !  .  .  .'  saia  a  stranger's  voice. 

'  Oh  !  it  is  not  he  !  '  she  cried,  shrinking  away  in 
terror,  and  she  stood  face  to  face  with  the  conscript, 
gazing  at  him  with  haggard  eyes. 


The  Conscript  265 

'  0  saint  bon  Dieu  !  how  like  he  is  !  '  cried  Brigitte. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  ;  even  the  stranger 
trembled  at  the  sight  of  Mme.  de  Dey's  face. 

'  Ah  !  monsieur,'  she  said,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
Brigitte's  husband,  feeling  for  the  first  time  the  full 
extent  of  a  sorrow  that  had  all  but  killed  her  at  its  first 
threatening;  *ah  !  monsieur,  I  cannot  stay  to  see  you 
any  longer  .  .  .  permit  my  servants  to  supply  my  place, 
and  to  see  that  you  have  all  that  you  want.' 

She  went  down  to  her  own  room,  Brigitte  and  the 
old  serving-man  half  carrying  her  between  them.  The 
housekeeper  set  her  mistress  in  a  chair,  and  broke 
out — 

'What,  madame!  is  that  man  to  sleep  in  Monsieur 
Auguste's  bed,  and  wear  Monsieur  Auguste*'s  slippers, 
and  eat  the  pasty  that  I  made  for  Monsieur  Auguste  ? 
Why,  if  they  were  to  guillotine  me  for  it,  I ' 

'  Brigitte  !  '  cried  Mme.  de  Dty. 

Brigitte  said  no  more. 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  chatterbox,'  said  her  husband,  in  a 
low  voice  ;  '  do  you  want  to  kill  Madame  ?  ' 

A  sound  came  from  the  conscript's  room  as  he  drew 
his  chair  to  the  table. 

'  I  shall  not  stay  here,'  cried  Mme.  de  Dey  ;  '  I  shall  go 
into  the  conservatory  3  I  shall  hear  better  there  if  anyone 
passes  in  the  night.' 

She  still  wavered  between  the  fear  that  she  had  lost 
her  son  and  the  hope  of  seeing  him  once  more.  That 
night  was  hideously  silent.  Once,  for  the  Countess, 
there  was  an  awful  interval,  when  the  battalion  of  con- 
scripts entered  the  town,  and  the  men  went  by,  one  by 
one,  to  their  lodgings.  Every  footfall,  every  sound  in 
the  street,  raised  hopes  to  be  disappointed  ;  but  it  was 
not  for  long,  the  dreadful  quiet  succeeded  again. 
Towards  morning  the  Countess  was  forced  to  return 
to  her  room.  Brigitte,  ever  keeping  watch  over  her 
mistress's  movements,  did  not  see  her  come  out  again  j 


266  The  Conscript 

and  when  she  went,  she  found  the  Countess  lying  there 
dead. 

'  I  expect  she  heard  that  conscript,'  cried  Brigitte, 
'  walking  about  Monsieur  Auguste's  room,  whistling  that 
accursed  Marseillaise  of  theirs  while  he  dressed,  as  if  he 
had  been  in  a  stable  !     That  must  have  killed  her.' 

But  it  was  a  deeper  and  a  more  solemn  emotion,  and 
doubtless  some  dreadful  vision,  that  had  caused  Mme.  de 
Dey's  death  ;  for  at  the  very  hour  when  she  died  at 
Carentan,  her  son  was  shot  in  le  Morbihan. 

This  tragical  story  may  be  added  to  all  the  instances 
on  record  of  the  workings  of  sympathies  uncontrolled  by 
the  laws  of  time  and  space.  These  observations,  collected 
with  scientific  curiosity  by  a  few  isolated  individuals, 
will  one  day  serve  as  documents  on  which  to  base  the 
foundations  of  a  new  science  which  hitherto  has  lacked 
its  man  of  genius. 

Paris,  February  iS^l. 


A  SEASIDE  TRAGEDY» 

To  Âfadame  la  Princesse  Caroline  Galitzin  de 
Genthodj  née  Comtesse  Walewska^  this  souvenir 
of  the  Author  is  respectfully  dedicated. 

The  young  for  the  most  part  delight  to  measure  the 
future  with  a  pair  of  compasses  of  their  own  ;  when  the 
strength  of  the  will  equals  the  boldness  of  the  angle  that 
they  thus  project,  the  whole  world  is  theirs. 

This  phenomenon  of  mental  existence  takes  place, 
however,  only  at  a  certain  age,  and  that  age,  without 
exception,  lies  in  the  years  between  twenty-two  and 
eight-and-twenty.  It  is  an  age  of  first  conceptions,  be- 
cause it  is  an  age  of  vast  longings,  an  age  which  is 
doubtful  of  nothing  ;  doubt  at  that  time  is  a  confession 
of  weakness  ;  it  passes  as  swiftly  as  the  sowing  time,  and 
is  followed  by  the  age  of  execution.  There  are  in  some 
sort  two  periods  of  youth  in  every  life — the  youth  of 
confident  hopes,  and  the  youth  of  action  ;  sometimes  in 
those  whom  Nature  has  favoured,  the  two  ages  coincide, 
and  then  we  have  a  Caesar,  a  Newton,  or  a  Bonaparte — 
the  greatest  among  great  men. 

I  was  measuring  the  space  of  time  that  a  single 
thought  needs  for  its  development,  and  (compass  in 
hand)  stood  on  a  crag  a  hundred  fathoms  above  the  sea, 
surveying  my  future,  and  filling  it  with  great  works,  like 
an  engineer  who  should  survey  an  empty  land,  and  cover 
it  with  fortresses  and  palaces.     The  sea  was  calm,  the 

^  A  letter  written  by  Louis  Lambert. 

267 


268  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

waves  toyed  with  the  reefs  of  rock.  I  had  just  dressed 
after  a  swim,  and  was  waiting  for  Pauline,  my  guardian 
angel,  who  was  bathing  in  a  granite  basin  floored  with 
fine  sand,  the  daintiest  bathing-place  of  Nature's  fashion- 
ing for  the  sea-fairies. 

We  were  at  the  utmost  extremity  of  Croisic-point,  a 
tiny  peninsula  in  Brittany  ;  we  were  far  from  the  haven 
itself,  and  in  a  part  of  the  coast  so  inaccessible  that  the 
inland  revenue  department  ignored  it,  and  a  coastguard 
scarcely  ever  passed  that  way.  Ah  !  to  dip  in  the 
winds  of  space,  after  a  plunge  in  the  sea  !  Who  would 
not  have  launched  forth  into  the  future  ?  Why  did  I 
think  ?  Why  does  a  trouble  invade  us  ? — Who  knows  ? 
Ideas  drift  across  heart  and  brain  by  no  will  of  yours. 
No  courtesan  is  more  capricious,  more  imperious,  than 
an  artist's  inspiration  ;  you  must  seize  her  like  Fortune, 
and  grasp  her  by  the  hair — when  she  comes.  Borne 
aloft  by  my  thought,  like  Astolpho  upon  his  hippogriff, 
I  rode  across  my  world,  and  arranged  it  all  to  my  liking. 
Then  when  I  was  fain  to  find  some  augury  in  the  things 
about  me  for  these  daring  castles  that  a  wild  imagination 
bade  me  build,  I  heard  a  sweet  cry  above  the  murmur  of 
the  restless  sea-fringe  that  marks  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
tide  upon  the  shore,  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  calling 
to  me  through  the  loneliness  and  silence,  the  glad  cry  of 
a  woman  fresh  from  the  sea.  It  was  as  if  a  soul  leapt 
forth  in  that  cry,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  seen 
the  footprints  of  an  angel  on  the  bare  rocks,  an  angel 
with  outspread  wings,  who  cried,  '  You  will  succeed  !  ' 
I  came  down,  radiant  and  light  of  foot,  by  bounds,  like  a 
pebble  flung  down  some  steep  slope.  '  What  is  it  ?  '  she 
asked  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  and  I  did  not  answer  ;  my 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Yesterday  Pauline  had  felt  my  sorrow,  as  to-day  she 
felt  my  joy,  with  the  magical  responsiveness  of  a  harp 
that  is  sensitive  to  every  change  in  the  atmosphere. — 
Life  has  exquisite  moments.     We  went  in  silence  along 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  269 

the  beach.  The  sky  was  cloudless  ;  there  was  not  a 
ripple  on  the  sea  j  others  might  have  seen  nothing  there 
but  two  vast  blue  steppes  above  and  below  ;  but  as  for 
us,  who  had  no  need  of  words  to  understand  each  other, 
who  could  conjure  up  illusions  to  feast  the  eyes  of  youth 
and  fill  the  space  between  the  zones  of  sea  and  sky — - 
those  swaddling-bands  of  the  Infinite — we  pressed  each 
other's  hands  at  the  slightest  change  that  passed  over  the 
fields  of  water  or  the  fields  of  air,  for  in  those  fleeting 
signs  we  read  the  interpretation  of  our  double  thought. 
Who  has  not  known,  in  the  midst  of  pleasure,  the  moment 
of  infinite  joy  when  the  soul  slips  its  fetters  of  flesh,  as 
it  were,  and  returns  to  the  world  whence  it  came  ?  And 
pleasure  is  not  our  only  guide  to  those  regions  ;  are  there 
not  hours  when  feeling  and  thought  intertwine  with 
thought  and  feeling,  and  fare  forth  together  as  two  chil- 
dren who  take  each  other  by  the  hand  and  run,  without 
knowing  why  ?     We  went  thus. 

The  roofs  of  the  town  had  come  to  be  a  faint  grey 
line  on  the  horizon  by  the  time  that  we  came  upon  a 
poor  fisherman  on  his  way  back  to  Croisic.  He  was 
barefooted  ;  his  trousers,  of  linen  cloth,  were  botched, 
and  tattered,  and  fringed  with  rags  ;  he  wore  a  shirt  of 
sailcloth,  and  a  mere  rag  of  a  jacket.  This  wretchedness 
jarred  upon  us,  as  if  it  had  been  a  discordant  note  in  the 
midst  of  our  harmony.  We  both  looked  at  each  other, 
regretting  that  we  had  not  Abul  Kasim's  treasury  to 
draw  upon  at  that  moment.  The  fisherman  was  swing- 
ing a  splendid  lobster  and  an  adder-pike  on  a  string  in 
his  right  hand,  while  in  the  left  he  carried  his  fishing 
tackle.  We  called  to  him,  with  a  view  to  buying  his 
fish.  The  same  idea  that  occurred  to  us  both  found 
expression  in  a  smile,  to  which  I  replied  by  a  light 
pressure  of  the  arm  that  lay  in  mine  as  I  drew  it  closer 
to  my  heart. 

It  was  one  of  those  nothings  that  memory  afterwards 
Iweaves  into  poems,  when   by  the  fireside  our  thoughts 


270  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

turn  to  the  hour  when  that  nothing  so  moved  us,  and 
the  place  rises  before  us  seen  through  a  mirage  which 
as  yet  has  not  been  investigated,  a  magical  illusion  that 
often  invests  material  things  about  us  during  those 
moments  when  life  flows  swiftly  and  our  hearts  are 
full.  The  most  beautiful  places  are  only  what  we  make 
them. 

What  man  is  there,  with  something  of  a  poet  in  him, 
who  does  not  find  that  some  fragment  of  rock  holds  a 
larger  place  in  his  memories  than  famous  views  in  many 
lands  which  he  has  made  costly  journeyings  to  see  ? 
Beside  that  rock  what  thoughts  surged  through  him  ! 
There  he  lived  through  a  whole  life  ;  there  fears  were 
dissipated,  and  gleams  of  hope  shone  into  the  depths  of 
his  soul.  At  that  moment  the  sun,  as  if  sympathising 
with  those  thoughts  of  love  or  of  the  future,  cast  a  glow 
of  light  and  warmth  over  the  tawny  sides  of  the  rock  ; 
his  eyes  were  drawn  to  a  mountain  flower  here  and 
there  on  its  sides,  and  the  crannies  and  rifts  grew  larger 
in  the  silence  and  peace  ;  the  mass,  so  dark  in  reality, 
took  the  hue  of  his  dreams  j  and  then  how  beautiful 
it  was  with  its  scanty  plant  life,  its  pungent-scented 
camomile  flowers,  its  velvet  fronds  of  maiden-hair  fern  ! 
How  splendidly  decked  for  a  prolonged  festival  of  human 
powers  exultant  in  their  strength  !  Once  already  the 
Lake  of  Bienne,  seen  from  the  island  of  Saint-Pierre, 
had  so  spoken  to  me  ;  perhaps  the  rock  at  Croisic  will 
be  the  last  of  these  joys.  But,  then,  what  will  become 
of  Pauline  ? 

*  You  have  had  a  fine  catch  this  morning,  good  man,' 
I  said  to  the  fisherman. 

'Yes,  sir,'  he  answered,  coming  to  a  stand  ;  and  we 
saw  his  face,  swarthy  with  exposure  to  the  sun's  rays 
that  beat  down  on  the  surface  of  the  sea.  The  expres- 
sion of  his  face  told  of  the  patient  resignation  and  the 
simple  manners  of  fisher  folk.  There  was  no  roughness 
in  the  man's  voice  j  he  had  a  kindly  mouth,  and  there 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  271 

was  an  indefinable  something  about  him — ambitionless, 
starved,  and  stunted.  We  should  have  been  disappointed 
if  he  had  looked  otherwise. 

'  Where  will  you  sell  the  fish  ?  ' 

*  In  the  town.' 

*  What  will  they  give  you  for  the  lobster  ?  ' 

*  Fifteen  sous.' 

*  And  for  the  adder-pike  ?  ' 

*  Twenty  sous.' 

*  Why  does  it  cost  so  much  more  than  the  lobster  ?  ' 

*  Oh  !  the  adder-pike  '  (he  called  it  an  etter-p'ike)  '  is 
much  more  delicate,  sir  !  And  then  they  are  as  spiteful 
as  monkeys,  and  very  hard  to  catch.' 

Will  you  let  us  have  them  both  for  five  francs  ?  ' 
asked  Pauline.  The  man  stood  stock-still  with  astonish- 
ment. 

*  You  shall  not  have  them  !  '  I  cried,  laughing.  *  I 
bid  ten  francs  for  them.  Emotions  should  be  paid  for  at 
a  proper  rate.' 

Quite  right,'  returned  she  ;  *  but  I  mean  to  have  them. 
I  bid  ten  francs  two  sous  for  them.' 
'  Ten  sous.' 

*  Twelve  francs.' 
'  Fifteen  francs.' 

*  Fifteen  francs  fifty  centimes,'  said  she. 

*  A  hundred  francs.' 

*  A  hundred  and  fifty.' 
I  bowed.     We  were  not  rich  enough  just  then  to  bid 

gainst  each  other  any  longer.  Our  poor  fisherman  was 
nystified,  not  knowing  whether  to  be  annoyed  or  to  give 
limself  up  to  joy;  but  we  helped  him  out  of  his  difficulty 
y  telling  him  where  we  lodged,  and  bidding  him  take 
he  lobster  and  the  adder-pike  to  our  landlady. 

*  Is  that  how  you  make  a  living  ?  '  I  asked,  wondering 
ow  he  came  to  be  so  poor. 

'  It  is  about  all  I  can  do,  and  it  is  a  very  hard  Hfe,'  he 
id.     *  Shore  fishing  is  a  chancy  trade  when  you  have 


272  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

neither  boat  nor  nets  and  must  do  it  with  hooks  and 
tackle.  You  have  to  wait  for  the  tide,  you  see, 
for  the  fish  or  the  shell-fish,  while  those  who  do 
things  on  a  large  scale  put  out  to  sea.  It  is  so  hard  to 
make  a  living  at  it,  that  I  am  the  only  shore-fisher  in 
these  parts.  For  whole  days  together  I  get  nothing  at 
all.  For  if  you  are  to  catch  anything,  an  adder-pike 
must  fall  asleep  and  get  left  by  the  tide,  like  this  one 
here,  or  a  lobster  must  be  fool  enough  to  stick  to  the 
rocks.  Sometimes  some  basse  come  up  with  a  high  tide, 
and  then  I  get  hold  of  them.' 

'  And,  after  all,  taking  one  thing  with  another,  what 
do  you  make  each  day  ?  ' 

'  Eleven  or  twelve  sous.  I  could  get  on  if  I  had  no 
one  but  myself,  but  I  have  my  father  to  keep,  and  the 
old  man  can't  help  me  ;  he  is  blind.' 

The  words  came  from  him  quite  simply  j  Pauline  and 
I  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

*  Have  you  a  wife  or  a  sweetheart  ?  * 

He  glanced  at  us  with  one  of  the  most  piteous 
expressions  that  I  have  ever  seen  on  a  human  face,  and 
answered,  *  If  I  had  a  wife,  I  should  have  to  turn  my  old 
father  adrift  j  I  could  not  keep  him  and  keep  a  wife  and 
children  too.' 

*  B  ut,  my  good  fellow,  why  don't  you  try  to  earn  more 
by  carrying  salt  in  the  haven,  or  by  working  in  the  salt 
pits  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  sir,  I  could  not  stand  the  work  for  three  months. 
I  am  not  strong  enough,  and  if  anything  happened  to  me 
my  father  would  have  to  beg.  The  only  sort  of  work 
for  me  is  something  that  wants  a  little  skill  and  a  lot  of 
patience.' 

*  But  how  can  two  people  live  on  twelve  sous  a-day  ?* 

*  Oh,  sir,  we  live  on  buckwheat  bannocks  and  the 
barnacles  I  break  off  the  rocks.' 

*  How  old  are  you  ?  ' 

*  Thirty-seven.' 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  273 

'  Have  you  always  stopped  here  ?  ' 

*  I  once  went  to  Guérande  to  be  drawn  for  the  army, 
and  once  to  Savenay  to  be  examined  by  some  gentle- 
men who  measured  me.  If  I  had  been  an  inch  taller, 
they  would  have  made  me  into  a  soldier.  The  first  long 
march  would  have  put  an  end  to  me,  and  my  poor  father 
would  have  been  begging  his  bread  this  day.' 

I  have  imagined  many  tragedies,  and  Pauline,  who 
passes  her  life  by  the  side  of  a  man  who  sufi^ers  as  I  do,  is 
used  to  strong  emotion,  yet  neither  of  us  had  ever  heard 
words  so  touching  as  these  of  the  fisherman.  We  walked 
on  for  several  steps  in  silence,  fathoming  the  dumb  depths 
of  this  stranger's  life,  admiring  the  nobleness  of  a  sacrifice 
made  unconsciously  ;  the  strength  of  his  weakness  made 
us  marvel,  his  reckless  generosity  humbled  us.  A  vision 
of  the  life  of  this  poor  creature  rose  before  me,  a  life  of 
pure  instinct,  a  being  chained  to  his  rock  like  a  convict 
fettered  to  a  cannon  ball,  seeking  for  shell-fish  to  gain  a 
livelihood,  and  upheld  in  that  long  patience  of  twenty  years 
by  a  single  feeling  !  How  many  hopes  disappointed  by 
^  squall,  or  a  change  in  the  weather  !  And  while  he  was 
hanging  over  the  edge  of  a  block  of  granite  with  arms  out- 
stretched like  a  Hindoo  fakir,  his  old  father,  crouching  on  his' 
stool  in  the  dark,  silent  hut,  was  waiting  for  the  coarsest 
of  the  shell-fish,  and  bread,  if  the  sea  should  please. 

'  Do  you  drink  wine  now  and  then  ?  '  I  asked. 

*  Three  or  four  times  a  year.' 
'  Very  well,  you  shall  drink  wine  to-day,  you  and  your 

father  ;  and  we  will  send  you  a  white  loaf.' 
'  You  are  very  kind,  sir.' 

*  We  will  give  you  the  wherewithal  for  dinner,  if  you 
care  to  show  us  the  way  along  the  shore  to  Batz,  where 
we  shall  see  the  tower  that  gives  you  a  view  of  the 
harbour  and  the  shore  between  Batz  and  Croisic' 

'With  pleasure,'  said  he.  '  Go  straight  on,  follow  the 
road  you  are  in  ;  1  will  overtake  you  again  when  I  have 
got  rid  of  my  tackle.' 

S 


274  ^  Seaside  Tragedy 

We  both  made  the  same  sign  of  assent,  and  he  rushed 
off  towards  the  town  in  great  spirits.  We  were  still 
as  we  had  been  before,  but  the  meeting  had  dimmed  our 
joyousness. 

*  Poor  man  !  '  Pauline  exclaimed,  in  the  tone  that  takes 
from  a  woman's  compassion  any  trace  of  the  something 
that  wounds  us  in  pity,  '  it  makes  one  ashamed  to  feel 
happy  when  he  is  so  miserable,  doesn't  it  ?  ' 

'  There  is  nothing  more  bitter  than  helpless  wishing,' 
I  answered.  *  The  two  poor  creatures,  this  father  and 
son,  could  no  more  understand  how  keen  our  sympathy 
has  been  than  the  world  could  understand  the  beauty  in 
that  life  of  theirs,  for  they  are  laying  up  treasures  in 
heaven.' 

'  Poor  country  !  '  she  said,  pointing  out  to  me  the 
heaps  of  cow-dung  spread  along  a  field  under  a  wall  of 
unhewn  stones.  '  I  asked  why  they  did  that,  and  a 
peasant  woman  who  was  spreading  it  said  that  she  was 
"making  firewood."  Just  imagine,  dear,  that  when  the 
cow-dung  is  dry,  the  poor  people  heap  it  up  and  light 
fires  with  it.  During  the  winter  they  sell  it,  like  blocks 
of  bark  fuel.  And,  finally,  how  much  do  you  think  the 
best-paid  sempstresses  earn  ? — Five  sous  a  day  and  their 
board,'  she  went  on  after  a  pause. 

'  Look,'  I  said,  '  the  sea-winds  blight  or  uproot  every- 
thing ;  there  are  no  trees.  Those  who  can  afford  it 
burn  the  drift-wood  and  broken-up  boats  ;  it  costs  too 
dear,  I  expect,  to  bring  firewood  from  other  parts  of 
Brittany  where  there  is  so  much  timber.  It  is  a  country 
without  beauty,  save  for  great  souls,  and  those  who  have 
no  hearts  could  not  live  here — it  is  a  land  for  poets  and 
barnacles,  and  nothing  between.  It  was  only  v/hen  the 
salt  warehouses  were  built  on  the  cliff  that  people  came 
to  live  here.  There  is  nothing  here  but  the  sand,  the  sea 
beyond  it,  and  above  us — space.' 

Wc  had  already  passed  the  town,  and  were  crossing 
the  waste  between  Croisic  and  the  market  town  of  Batz, 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  275 

Imagine,  dear  uncle,  two  leagues  of  waste  covered  with 
gleaming  sand.  Here  and  there  a  few  rocks  raised  their 
heads  ;  you  might  almost  think  that  extinct  monsters 
were  crouching  among  the  dunes.  The  waves  broke 
over  the  low  ridges  along  the  margin  of  the  sea,  till  they 
looked  like  large  white  roses  floating  on  the  surface  of 
the  water  and  drifted  up  upon  the  beach.  I  looked  across 
this  savanna  that  lay  between  the  ocean  on  the  right  and 
the  great  lagoon  on  the  left,  made  by  the  encroaching  sea 
between  Croisic  and  the  sandy  heights  of  Guérande,  with 
the  barren  salt  marshes  at  their  feet  ;  then  I  looked  at 
Pauline,  and  asked  if  she  felt  able  to  walk  across  the 
sands  in  the  burning  sun. 

'  I  have  laced  boots  on  ;  let  us  go  over  there,'  she 
said,  looking  towards  the  Tower  of  Batz,  which  caught 
the  eye  by  its  great  mass,  erected  there  like  a  pyramid  in 
the  desert,  a  slender  spindle-shaped  pyramid  however,  a 
pyramid  so  picturesquely  ornate  that  one  could  imagine 
it  to  be  an  outlying  sentinel  ruin  of  some  great  Eastern 
town  laid  desolate. 

We  went  a  few  paces  further  to  reach  a  fragment  of 
rock  to  sit  in  the  shade  that  it  still  cast,  but  it  was  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  shadows  which  crept 
closer  and  closer  to  our  feet  swiftly  disappeared  altogether. 

'  How  beautiful  the  silence  is,'  she  said  ;  '  and  how  the 
murmur  of  the  sea  beating  steadily  against  the  beach 
deepens  it  !  ' 

*  If  you  surrender  your  mind  to  the  three  immensities 
around  us — the  air,  the  sea,  and  the  sands,'  I  answered, 
*and  heed  nothing  but  the  monotonous  sound  of  the  ebb 
and  flow,  you  would  find  its  speech  intolerable,  for  you 
would  think  that  it  bore  the  burden  of  a  thought  that 
would  overwhelm  you.  Yesterday,  at  sunset,  I  felt  that 
sensation  ;  it  crushed  me.' 

'  Oh  yes,  let  us  talk,'  she  said  after  a  long  pause. 
*  No  speaker  is  more  terrible.  I  imagine  that  I  am  dis- 
covering the  causes  of  the  harmonies  about  us,'  she  went 


276  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

on.  '  This  landscape  that  has  but  three  contrasting 
colours — the  gleaming  yellow  of  the  sand,  the  blue 
heaven,  and  the  changeless  green  of  the  sea — is  great 
without  anything  savage  in  its  grandeur,  vast  but  not 
desolate,  monotonous  but  not  dreary  j  it  is  made  up  of 
three  elements  ;  it  has  variety.' 

'Women  alone  can  render  their  impressions  like  that,' 
I  said  ;  '  you  would  be  the  despair  of  a  poet,  dear  soul 
that  I  have  read  so  well.' 

'These  three  expressions  of  the  Infinite  glow  like  a 
burning  flame  in  the  noonday  heat,'  Pauline  said,  laugh- 
ing. '  Here  I  can  imagine  the  poetry  and  passions  of 
the  East.' 

'  And  I,  a  vision  of  Despair.' 

'  Yes,'  she  said  ;  '  the  dune  is  a  sublime  cloister.' 

We  heard  our  guide  hurrying  after  us  ;  he  wore  his 
hohday  clothes.  We  asked  him  a  few  insignificant 
questions  ;  he  thought  he  saw  that  our  mood  had 
changed,  and,  with  the  self-repression  that  misfortune 
teaches,  he  was  silent  ;  and  we  also — though  from  time 
to  time  each  pressed  the  hand  of  the  other  to  communi- 
cate thoughts  and  impressions — walked  for  half  an  hour 
In  silence,  either  because  the  shimmering  heat  above 
the  sands  lay  heavily  upon  us,  or  because  the  difficulty" 
of  walking  absorbed  our  attention.  We  walked  hand  in 
hand  like  two  children  ;  we  should  not  have  gone  a  dozen 
paces  if  we  had  walked  arm  in  arm. 

The  way  that  led  to  Batz  was  little  more  than  a  track  ; 
the  first  high  wind  effaced  the  ruts  or  the  dints  left  by 
horses'  hoofs  ;  but  the  experienced  eyes  of  our  guide  dis- 
cerned traces  of  cattle  and  sheep  dung  on  this  way,  which 
sometimes  wound  towards  the  sea,  sometimes  towards 
the  land,  to  avoid  the  cliffs  on  the  one  hand  and  the 
rocks  on  the  other.  It  was  noon,  and  we  were  only 
half-way. 

'  We  will  rest  there,'  I  said,  pointing  to  a  headland 
where  the  rocks  rose  high  enough  to  make  it  probable 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  277 

that  we  might  find  a  cave  among  them.  The  fisherman, 
following  the  direction  of  my  finger,  jerked  his  head. 

'  There  is  some  one  there  !  Any  one  coming  from 
market  at  Batz  to  Croisic,  or  from  Croisic  to  Batz, 
always  goes  round  some  way  so  as  not  to  pass  near  the 
place.' 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  that  suggested  a  mystery.)^: 

*  Then  is  there  a  robber  there,  a  murderer  ?  ' 
Our  guide's  only  answer  was  a  deep  breath   that  left 

us  twice  as  curious  as  before. 

'  [f  we  go  past,  will  any  harm  come  to  us  ?  ' 

'  Oh  no  !  ' 

'  Will  you  go  with  us  ?  ' 

*No,  sir!' 

*  Then  we  shall  go,  if  you  will  assure  us  that  there  is 
no  danger  for  us.' 

*  I  do  not  say  that,'  the  fisherman  answered  quickly  ; 
*  I  only  say  that  the  one  who  is  there  will  say  nothing 
to  you,  and  will  do  you  no  harm.  Oh,  good  heavens  ! 
he  will  not  so  much  as  stir  from  his  place.' 

'  Then  who  is  it.' 

*  A  man  !  ' 
Never  were  two  syllables  uttered  in  such  a  tragical 

fashion. 

At  that  moment  we  were  some  twenty  paces  away 
from  the  ridge  about  which  the  sea  was  lapping.  Our 
guide  took  the  way  that  avoided  the  rocks,  and  we  held 
straight  on  for  them,  but  Pauline  took  my  arm.  Our 
guide  quickened  his  pace  so  as  to  reach  the  spot  where 
the  two  ways  met  again  at  the  sam.e  time  as  ourselves. 
He  thought,  no  doubt,  that  when  we  had  seen  '  the 
man,'  we  should  hurry  from  the  place.  This  kindled 
our. curiosity  ;  it  became  so  strong  that  our  hearts  beat 
fast,  as  if  a  feeling  of  terror  possessed  us  both.  In  spite 
of  the  heat  of  the  day  and  a  certain  weariness  after  our 
walk  over  the  sands,  our  souls  were  steeped  in  the  in- 
n  effable  languid  calm  of  an  ecstasy  that  possessed  us  both, 


278  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

brimming  with  pure  joy,  that  can  only  be  compared  with 
the  delight  of  hearing  exquisite  music — music  like  the 
Andiamo  mio  hen  of  Mozart.  When  two  souls  are 
blended  in  one  pure  thought,  are  they  not  like  two 
sweet  voices  singing  together  ?  Before  you  can  appre- 
ciate the  emotion  that  thrilled  us  both,  you  must  likewise 
share  in  the  half-voluptuous  mood  in  which  the  morning's 
experiences  had  steeped  us. 

If  you  had  watched  for  a  while  some  daintily  coloured 
wood-dove  on  a  swaying  branch,  above  a  spring,  you 
would  utter  a  cry  of  distress  if  you  saw  a  hawk  pounce 
down,  bury  claws  of  steel  in  its  heart,  and  bear  it  away 
with  the  murderous  speed  with  which  powder  wings  a 
bullet.  We  had  scarcely  set  foot  in  the  space  before  the 
cavern,  a  sort  of  esplanade  some  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea,  protected  from  the  surge  by  the  steep  rocks  that 
sloped  to  the  water's  edge,  when  we  were  conscious  of 
an  electric  thrill,  something  like  the  shock  of  a  sudden 
awakening  by  some  noise  in  a  silent  night.  Both  of  us 
had  seen  a  man  sitting  there  on  a  block  of  granite,  and 
he  had  looked  at  us. 

That  glance,  from  two  bloodshot  eyes,  was  like  the 
flash  of  fire  from  a  cannon,  and  his  stoical  immobility 
could  only  be  compared  to  the  changeless  aspect  of  the 
granite  slabs  that  lay  about  him.  Slowly  his  eyes  turned 
towards  us  j  his  body  as  rigid  and  motionless  as  if  he 
had  been  turned  to  stone  ;  then  after  that  glance,  that 
made  such  a  powerful  impression  upon  our  minds,  his  eyes 
turned  to  gaze  steadily  over  the  vast  stretch  of  sea,  in  spite 
of  the  glare  reflected  from  it,  as  the  eagle,  it  is  said, 
gazes  at  the  sun  without  lowering  his  eyelids,  nor  did  he 
look  up  again  from  the  waves. 

Try  to  call  up  before  you,  dear  uncle,  some  gnarled 
oak  stump,  with  all  its  branches  lately  lopped  away, 
rearing  its  head,  like  a  strange  apparition,  by  the  side  of 
a  lonely  road,  and  you  will  have  a  clear  idea  of  this  man 
that   we   saw.      The   form   of  an   age-worn    Hercules 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  279 

:he  face  of  Olympian  Jove  bearing  marks  of  the  ravages 
)f  time,  of  a  life  of  rough  toil  upon  the  sea,  of  sorrow 
A^ithin,  of  coarse  food,  and  darkened  as  if  blasted  by 
ightning.  I  saw  the  muscles,  like  a  framework  of  iron, 
;tanding  out  upon  his  hard  shaggy  hands,  and  all  things 
Ise  about  him  indicated  a  vigorous  constitution.  In  a 
orner  of  the  cavern  I  noticed  a  fairly  large  heap  of  moss, 
md  on  a  rough  slab  of  granite,  that  did  duty  as  a  table, 
1  piece  of  ia  round  loaf  lay  over  the  mouth  of  a  stone- 
A^are  pitcher. 

Never  among  my  visions  of  the  life  led  in  the  desert 
3y  early  Christian  anchorites  had  I  pictured  a  face  more 
iwe-inspiring,  more  grand  and  terrible  in  repentance 
han  this.  And  even  you,  dear  uncle,  in  your  experi- 
:nce  of  the  confessional,  have,  perhaps,  never  seen  a 
Dcnitence  so  grand  ;  for  this  remorse  seemed  to  be 
h'owned  in  a  sea  of  prayers,  of  prayers  that  flowed  for 
îver  from  a  dumb  despair.  This  fisherman,  this  rough 
Breton  sailor,  was  sublime  through  a  thought  hidden 
ivithin  him.  Had  those  eyes  shed  tears  ?  Had  the  hand 
)f  that  rough-hewn  statue  ever  struck  a  blow  ?  A  fierce 
lonesty  was  stamped  upon  a  rugged  forehead  where 
•orce  of  character  had  still  left  some  traces  of  the  gentle- 
less  that  is  the  prerogative  of  all  true  strength.  Was 
:hat  brow,  so  scored  and  furrowed  with  wrinkles,  com- 
aatible  with  a  great  heart  ?  How  came  this  man  to 
ibide  with  the  granite  ?  How  had  the  granite  entered 
nto  him  ?  Where  did  the  granite  end  and  the  man 
Degin  ?  A  whole  crowd  of  thoughts  passed  through  our 
Tiinds  ;  and,  as  our  guide  had  expected,  we  went  by 
quickly  and  in  silence.  When  he  saw  us  again,  we 
were  either  perturbed  with  a  sense  of  dread,  or  overcome 
by  the  strangeness  of  this  thing,  but  he  did  not  remind 
us  that  his  prediction  had  come  true. 

'■  Did  you  see  him  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  What  is  the  man  ?  ' 

'  They  call  him  the  *'man  under  a  vow.'" 


28o  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

You  can  readily  imagine  how  we  both  turned  to  our 
fisherman  at  these  words.  He  was  a  simple-minded 
fellow  ;  he  understood  our  mute  inquiry  ;  and  this  is  the 
story  which  I  have  tried  to  tell,  as  far  as  possible,  in  the 
homely  language  in  which  he  told  it, 

'  The  Croisic  folk  and  the  people  at  Batz  think  that 
he  has  been  guilty  of  something,  madame,  and  that  he  is 
doing  a  penance  laid  upon  him  by  a  famous  recteur ^  to 
whom  he  went  to  confess,  beyond  Nantes.  There  are 
some  who  think  that  Cambremer  (that  is  his  name)  is 
unlucky,  and  that  it  brings  bad  luck  to  pass  through  the 
air  he  breathes,  so  a  good  many  of  them  before  going 
round  the  rocks  will  stop  to  see  which  way  the  wind 
blows.  If  it  blows  from  the  nor'-west,'  he  said,  pointing 
in  that  direction  with  his  finger,  *  they  would  not  go  on 
if  they  had  set  out  to  seek  a  bit  of  the  True  Cross  ;  they 
turn  back  again  ;  they  are  afraid.  Other  folk,  rich  people 
in  Croisic,  say  that  Cambremer  once  made  a  vow,  and 
that  is  why  he  is  called  "the  man  under  a  vow."  He 
never  leaves  the  place  ;  he  is  there  night  and  day. 

'  There  is  some  show  of  reason  for  these  tales,'  he 
added,  turning  round  to  point  out  to  us  something  that  had 
escaped  our  notice.  '  You  see  that  wooden  cross  that  he 
has  set  up  there  on  the  left  ;  that  is  to  show  that  he  has 
put  himself  under  the  protection  of  God  and  the  Holy 
Virgin  and  the  Saints.  He  would  not  be  respected  as 
he  is,  if  it  were  not  that  the  terror  people  have  of  him 
makes  him  as  safe  as  if  he  had  a  guard  of  soldiers. 

'  He  has  not  said  a  word  since  he  went  into  prison  in 
the  open  air.  He  lives  on  bread  and  water  that  his 
brother's  Httle  girl  brings  him  every  morning,  a  little 
slip  of  a  thing  twelve  years  old  ;  he  has  left  all  he  has  to 
her,  and  a  pretty  child  she  is,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  and  full 
of  fun,  a  dear  little  pet.  She  has  blue  eyes  as  long  as 
that^  he  went  on,  holding  out  his  thumb,  'and  hair  like 
a  cherub's.  When  you  begin — "  I  say,  Perotte  " — (that 
is  what  we  say  for  Pierrette^  he  said,  interrupting  him- 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  281 

self;  *  Saint  Pierre  is  her  patron  saint,  Cambremer's. 
name  is  Pierre,  and  he  was  her  godfather) — "  I  say, 
Perotte,  what  does  your  uncle  say  to  you  ?  " — "  He  says 
nothing,"  says  she,  "  nothing  whatever,  nothing  at  all." 
— "  Well,  then,  what  does  he  do  when  you  go  ?  " — "  He 
kisses  me  on  the  forehead  of  a  Sunday." — "  Aren't  you 
afraid  of  him  ?  " — "  Not  a  bit,"  says  she  ;  "  he  is  my  god- 
father."— He  will  not  have  any  one  else  bring  his  food. 
Perotte  says  that  he  smiles  when  she  comes  ;  but  you 
might  as  well  say  that  the  sun  shone  in  a  fog,  for  he  is 
as  gloorny  as  a  sea  mist,  they  say.' 

'But  you  are  exciting  our  curiosity  without  satisfying 
it,'  I  broke  in.  '  Do  you  know  what  brought  him  there  ? 
Was  it  trouble,  or  remorse,  or  crime,  or  is  he  mad,  or 
what  ?  ' 

'  Eh  !  sir,  there  is  hardly  a  soul  save  my  father  and 
me  that  knows  the  rights  of  the  matter.  My  mother 
that 's  gone  was  in  service  in  the  house  of  the  justice  that 
Cambremer  went  to.  The  priest  told  him  to  go  to  a 
justice,  and  only  gave  him  absolution  on  that  condition, 
if  the  tale  is  true  that  they  tell  in  the  haven.  My  poor 
mother  overheard  Cambremer  without  meaning  to  do  so, 
because  the  kitchen  was  alongside  the  sitting-room  in 
the  justice's  house.  So  she  heard.  She  is  dead,  and  the 
justice  has  gone  too.  Aly  mother  made  us  promise,  my 
father  and  me,  never  to  let  on  to  the  people  round  about  ; 
and  I  can  tell  you  this,  every  hair  bristled  up  on  my  head 
that  night  when  my  mother  told  us  the  story ' 

'  Well,  then,  tell  it  to  us  ;   we  will  not  repeat  it.' 

The  fisherman  looked  at  us  both — then  he  went  on, 
something  after  this  fashion — 

'  Pierre  Cambremer,  whom  you  saw  yonder,  is  the 
oldest  of  the  family.  The  Cambremers  have  been  sea- 
men from  father  to  son  ;  you  see,  their  name  means  that 
the  sea  has  always  bent  under  them.  The  one  you  saw 
had  a  fishing-boat,  several  fishing-boats,  and  the  sardine-*- 
fishery  was  his  trade,  though  he  did  deep-sea  fishing  as 


28l  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

well  for  the  dealers.  He  would  have  fitted  out  a  bigger 
vessel,  ajid  gone  to  the  cod-fishing,  if  he  had  not  been  so 
fond  of  his  wife  ;  a  fine  woman  she  was,  a  Brouin  from 
Guérande,  a  strapping  girl  with  a  warm  heart.  She  was 
so  fond  of  Cambremer  that  she  would  never  let  her  man 
go  away  from  her  for  longer  than  for  the  sardine-fishing. 
They  lived  down  yonder,  there  !  '  said  our  fisherman, 
standing  on  a  hillock  to  point  out  to  us  an  islet  in  the 
little  inland  sea  between  the  dunes  where  we  were  walk- 
ing and  the  salt  marshes  at  Guérande.  '  Do  you  see  the 
house  ?     It  belonged  to  him. 

*Jacquette  Brouin  and  Cambremer  had  but  one  child, 
a  boy,  whom  they  loved  like — what  shall  I  say? — like  an 
only  child  ;  they  were  crazy  over  him.  Their  little 
Jacques  might  have  done  something  (asking  your  pardon) 
into  the  soup,  and  they  would  have  thought  it  sweetened 
it.  Times  and  times  again  we  used  to  see  them,  buy- 
ing the  finest  toys  at  the  fair  for  him  !  There  was 
no  sense  in  it — everybody  told  them  so.  Little  Cam- 
bremer found  out  that  he  could  do  as  he  liked  with  them, 
and  he  grew  as  wilful  as  a  red  donkey.  If  any  one  told 
his  father,  "  Your  boy  has  all  but  killed  little  So-and-so,' 
Cambremer  used  to  laugh  and  say,  "  Bah  !  he  will  be  a 
mettlesome  sailor  !  He  will  command  the  king's  ships." 
Another  would  say,  "Pierre  Cambremer,  do  you  know 
that  your  lad  put  out  Pougaud's  little  girl's  eye  ?  " — "  He 
will  be  one  for  the  girls,"  Pierre  would  say.  It  was  all 
right  in  his  eyes.  By  the  time  the  little  rascal  was  ten 
years  old  he  knocked  everybody  about,  and  twisted  the 
fowls'  necks  for  fun,  and  ripped  open  the  pigs  ;  he  was 
as  bloodthirsty  as  a  weasel.  "  He  will  make  a  famous 
soldier  !"  said  Cambremer  j  "he  has  a  liking  for  blood- 
shed." 

'  You  see,  I  myself  remember  all  this,'  said  our  fisher- 
man ;  'and  so  does  Cambremer,'  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

*  Jacques  Cambremer  grew  up  to  be  fifteen  or  sixteen, 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  283 

and  he  was — well,  a  bully.  He  would  go  ofF  and  amuse 
himself  at  Guerande,  and  cut  a  figure  at  Savenay.  He 
must  have  money  for  that.  So  he  began  robbing  his 
mother,  and  she  did  not  dare  to  tell  her  husband.  Cam- 
bremer  was  so  honest  that  if  any  one  had  overpaid  him 
twopence  on  an  account,  he  would  have  gone  twenty 
leagues  to  pay  it  back.  At  last  one  day  the  mother  had 
nothing  left.  While  the  father  was  away  at  the  fishing, 
Jacques  made  off  with  the  dresser,  the  plenishing,  and  the 
sheets  and  the  linen,  and  left  nothing  but  the  four  walls  ; 
he  had  sold  all  the  things  in  the  house  to  pay  for  his 
carryings-on  at  Nantes.  The  poor  woman  cried  about 
it  day  and  night.  She  would  have  to  tell  his  father 
when  he  came  back,  and  she  was  afraid  of  the  father  ; 
not  for  herself  though,  not  she  !  So  when  Pierre  Cam- 
bremer  came  back  and  saw  his  house  furnished  with 
things  the  neighbours  had  lent  her,  he  asked — 

'  "  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 

'  And  the  poor  thing,  more  dead  than  alive,  answered, 
*'  We  have  been  robbed." 

'  "  What  has  become  of  Jacques  ?  " 

*  "Jacques  is  away  on  a  spree  !  " 

*  Nobody  knew  where  the  rogue  had  gone. 

*  "  He  is  too  fond  of  his  fun,"  said  Pierre. 

*Six  months  afterwards  the  poor  father  heard  that 
Jacques  had  got  into  trouble  at  Nantes.  He  goes  over 
on  foot — it  is  quicker  than  going  by  sea — puts  his  hand 
on  his  son's  shoulder,  and  fetches  him  home.  He  did  not 
ask  him,  "What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

*  "  If  you  don't  keep  steady  here  for  a  couple  of  years 
with  your  mother  and  me,"  he  said,  "and  help  with  the 
fishing,  and  behave  yourself  like  a  decent  fellow,  you  will 
have  me  to  reckon  with  !  " 

*  The  harebrained  youngster,  counting  on  the  weak- 
ness his  father  and  mother  had  for  him,  made  a  grimace 
at  his  father,  and  thereupon  Pierre  fetched  him  a  slap  in 
the  face  that  laid  up  Jacques  for  six  months  afterwards. 


284  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

*  The  poor  mother  was  breaking  her  heart  all  the  time. 
One  night  she  was  lying  quietly  asleep  by  her  husband's  / 
side,  when  she  heard  a  noise  and  sat  up,  and  got  a  stab  in 
the  arm  from  a  knife.  She  shrieked  ;  and  when  they 
had  struck  a  light,  Pierre  Cambremer  found  that  his  wife 
was  wounded.  He  thought  it  was  a  robber,  as  if  there 
were  any  robbers  in  our  part  of  the  world,  when  you  can 
carry  ten  thousand  francs  in  gold  from  Croisic  to  Saint 
Nazaire,  and  no  one  would  so  much  as  ask  you  what  you 
had  under  your  arm.  Pierre  looked  about  for  Jacques, 
and  could  not  find  him  anywhere.  In  the  morning  the 
unnatural  wretch  had  the  face  to  come  back  and  say  that., 
he  had  been  at  Batz. 

*  I  should  tell  you  that  the  mother  did  not  know 
where  to  hide  her  money.  Cambremer  himself  used  to 
leave  his  with  M.  Dupotet  at  Croisic.  Their  son's  wild 
ways  had  eaten  up  crowns  and  francs  and  gold  louis  ; 
they  were  ruined,  as  you  may  say,  and  it  was  hard  on 
folk  who  had  about  twelve  thousand  livres,  including 
their  little  island.  Nobody  knew  how  much  Cambremer 
had  paid  down  at  Nantes  to  hax^e  his  son  back.  Their 
luck  went  from  bad  to  worse.  One  of  Cambremer's 
brothërs^wSsTInîortunâtè,  and  wanted  help.  Pierre  told 
him,  to  comfort  him,  that  Jacques  and  Perotte  (the 
younger  brother's  girl)  should  be  married  some  day. 
Then,  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  earning  his  bread,  he 
took  him  to  help  in  the  fishing  ;  for  Joseph  Cambremer 
was  obliged  to  work  with  his  own  hands.  His  wife  had 
died  of  the  fever,  and  he  had  to  pay  some  one  else  to 
nurse  Perotte  till  she  was  weaned.  Pierre  Cambremer's 
wife  owed  as  much  as  a  hundred  francs  to  difFerent  people 
on  the  baby's  account  for  linen  and  things,  and  two  or 
three  months  to  big  Frelu,  who  had  a  child  by  Simon 
Gaudry,  and  nursed  Perotte.  La  Cambremer,  too,  had 
sewn  a  Spanish  doubloon  into  the  flock  of  her  mattress, 
and  written  on  it  "  For  Perotte."  You  see,  she  had  had 
a  good   education,  and   could   write    like  a  clerk  ;    she 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  285 

had  taught  her  son  to  read  too — that  was  the  ruin  of 
him. 

'  Nobody  knew  how  it  came  about,  but  that  scoundrel 
Jacques  got  wind  of  the  gold  and  took  it,  and  went  ofF 
to  get  drunk  at  Croisic.  Old  Cambremer,  just  as  if  it 
had  happened  on  purpose,  came  in  with  his  boat  ;  and  as 
he  came  up  to  the  house  he  saw  a  scrap  of  paper  floating 
about.  He  picked  it  up  and  took  it  in  to  his  wife  ;  and 
she  dropped  down,  for  she  knew  her  own  handwriting. 
Cambremer  said  not  a  word.  He  went  over  to  Croisic, 
and  heard  there  that  his  son  was  in  the  billiard-room. 
Then  he  sent  for  the  good  woman  who  kept  the  café, 
and  said  to  her — 

'  "  I  told  Jacques  not  to  change  a  piece  of  gold  that  he 
will  pay  his  score  with  :  let  me  have  it  ;  I  will  wait  at 
the  door,  and  you  shall  have  silver  for  it." 

'The  woman  of  the  house  brought  him  out  the  gold 
piece.     Cambremer  took  it. 

'"Good  !  "  said  he,  and  he  went  away  home. 

'  All  the  town  knew  that.  But  this  I  know,  and  the 
rest  of  them  have  only  a  sort  of  general  guess  at  how  it 
was.  He  told  his  wife  to  set  their  room  to  rights  ;  it  is 
on  the  ground  floor.  He  kindled  a  fire  on  the  hearth, 
he  lighted  two  candles,  and  put  two  chairs  on  one  side 
of  the  fireplace,  and  a  three-legged  stool  on  the  other. 
Then  he  bade  his  wife  put  out  the  suit  he  was  married  in, 
and  to  put  on  her  wedding  gown.  He  dressed  himself; 
and  then  when  he  was  dressed,  he  went  out  for  his 
brother,  and  told  him  to  keep  watch  outside  the  house, 
and  give  warning  if  he  heard  any  sound  on  either  beach, 
here  by  the  sea  or  yonder  on  the  salt  marshes  at 
Guerande.  When  he  thought  his  wife  must  be  dressed, 
he  went  in  again  ;  he  loaded  a  gun,  and  hid  it  in  the 
chimney  corner. 

'  Back  comes  Jacques  to  the  house.  It  was  late  when 
he  came  ;  he  had  been  drinking  and  gambling  up  to  ten 
o'clock  i  he  had    got   some  one  to  ferry   him  over   at 


286  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

Carnouf  point.  His  uncle  heard  him  hail  the  boat,  and 
went  to  look  for  him  along  the  side  of  the  salt  marshes, 
and  passed  him  without  saying  anything. 

'  When  Jacques  came  in,  his  father  spoke. 

*"Sit  you  down  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  stool. 
"  You   are   before  your  father  and    mother  ;   you    have  ^ 
sinned  against  them,  and  they  are  your  judges."  .^■ 

'Jacques  began  to  bellow,  for  Cambremer's  face 
twitched  strangely.    The  mother  sat  there,  stiff  as  an  oar. 

*  "  If  you  make  any  noise,  if  you  stir,  if  you  don't  sit 
straight  up  like  a  mast  on  your  stool,"  said  Pierre,  pointing 
his  gun  at  him,  "  I  will  shoot  you  like  a  dog." 

'Cambremer's  son  grew  mute  as  a  fish,  and  all  this 
time  the  mother  said  not  a  word. 

'  "  Here  is  a  bit  of  paper  that  wrapped  up  a  Spanish 
gold  coin.  That  coin  was  in  your  mother's  mattress. 
No  one  knew  where  it  was  except  your  mother.  I  found 
the  bit  of  paper  floating  on  the  water  when  I  came  in. 
Only  this  evening  you  changed  the  piece  of  Spanish  gold 
at  Mother  Fleurant's,  and  your  mother  cannot  find  the 
coin  in  her  mattress. — Explain  yourself." 

'Jacques  said  that  he  had  not  taken  his  mother's  money, 
and  that  he  had  had  the  coin  at  Nantes. 

'"So  much  the  better,"  said  Pierre.  'How  can  you 
prove  it  ?  " 

'«I  did  have  it." 

'  "  You  did  not  take  your  mother's  coin  ?  " 

'"No." 

'  "  Can  you  swear  it  on  your  salvation  ?  " 

*  He  was  just  going  to  swear,  when  his  mother  looked 
up  and  said — 

'"Jacques,  my  child,  take  care;  do  not  swear  if  it  is 
not  true.  .  .  .  You  can  repent  and  mend  ;  there  is  still 
time,"  and  she  cried  at  that. 

'"You  are  a  So-and-so,"  said  he;  "you  have  always 
tried  to  ruin  me." 

'Cambremer  turned  white,  and  said,  "What  you  have 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  287 

just  said  to  your  mother  goes  to  swell  your  account. 
Now,  come  to  the  point  !     Will  you  swear  ?  " 

'"Yes." 

'"Stop  a  bit,"  said  Pierre,  "was  there  a  cross  on  your 
coin  like  the  mark  the  sardine  merchant  put  on  the  coin 
he  paid  me  ?  " 

'Jacques  grew  sober  at  that,  and  began  to  cry. 

'"That  is  enough  talk,"  said  Pierre.  "I  say  nothing 
of  what  you  have  done  before — I  have  no  mind  that  a 
Cambremer  should  die  in  the  market-place  at  Croisic. 
Say  your  prayers,  and  let  us  be  quick  !  A  priest  is 
coming  to  hear  your  confession." 

'  The  mother  had  gone  out  of  the  room  that  she  might 
not  hear  her  son's  doom.  As  soon  as  she  went  out, 
Joseph  Cambremer,  the  uncle,  came  in  with  the  recteur 
from  Piriac.  To  him  Jacques  would  not  open  his 
mouth.  He  was  shrewd  ;  he  knew  his  father  well 
enough  to  feel  sure  that  he  would  not  kill  him  till  he  had 
confessed. 

'"Thanks.  Pardon  us,  sir,"  Cambremer  said  to  the 
priest  when  Jacques  continued  obstinate.  "  I  meant  to 
give  my  son  a  lesson,  and  I  beg  you  to  say  nothing  about 
it. — As  for  you,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Jacques,  "if  you 
do  not  mend  your  ways,  next  time  you  go  wrong  shall 
be  the  last,  and  shrift  or  no  shrift,  I  will  make  an  end 
of  it." 

'  He  sent  him  off  to  bed.  The  young  fellow  believed 
him,  and  fancied  that  he  could  make  things  right  with 
his  father.  He  slept.  His  father  sat  up.  When  he  saw 
his  son  fast  asleep,  he  covered  the  young  fellow's  mouth 
with  hemp,  bound  it  tightly  round  with  a  strip  of  sail- 
cloth ;  then  he  tied  him  hand  and  foot.  He  writhed,  he 
"shed  tears  of  blood,"  so  Cambremer  told  the  justice. 
What  would  you  have  !  His  mother  flung  herself  at  the 
father's  feet. 

'"He  is  doomed,"  said  Cambremer  j  "you  will  help 
me  to  put  him  into  the  boat." 


288  A  Seaside  Tragedy  * 

*She  would  not  help  him,  and  Cambremer  did  it  • 
alone  ;  he  fastened  him  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
and  tied  a  stone  round  his  neck,  put  out  of  the  bay, 
reached  the  sea,  and  came  out  as  far  as  the  rock  where 
he  sits  now.  Then  the  poor  mother,  who  had  made  her 
brother-in-law  take  her  over, cried  out  in  vain  for  mercy; 
it  was  like  throwing  a  stone  at  a  wolf.  By  the  moon- 
light she  saw  the  father  take  the  son,  towards  whom  her  - 
heart  still  yearned,  and  fling  him  into  the  water  ;  and  as  ' 
there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  she  heard  the 
gurgling  sound,  and  then  nothing — not  an  eddy,  not  a 
ripple  ;  the  sea  is  a  famous  keeper  of  secrets,  that  it  is  ! 
When  Cambremer  reached  the  place  to  silence  her 
moans,  he  found  her  lying  like  one  dead.  The  two 
brothers  could  not  carry  her,  so  they  had  to  put  her  in 
the  boat  that  had  carried  her  son,  and  they  took  her 
round  home  by  way  of  the  Croisic  channel. 

*  Ah,  well  !  la  belle  Brouin^  as  they  called  her,  did  not  ^ 
live  the  week  out.  She  died,  asking  her  husband  to  burn 
the  accursed  boat.  Oh  !  he  did  it  ;  yes,  he  did  it.  He 
himself  was  queer  after  that;  he  did  not  know  what  ailed 
him  ;  he  reeled  about  like  a  man  who  cannot  carry  his 
wine.  Then  he  went  off  somewhere  for  ten  days,  and  . 
came  back  again  to  put  himself  where  you  saw  him  ;  and 
since  he  has  been  there,  he  has  not  said  a  word.' 

The  fisherman  told  us  the  story  in  a  few  minutes,  in 
words  even  more  simple  than  those  that  I  have  used. 
Working  people  make  little  comment  on  what  they  tell  ; 
they  give  you  the  facts  that  strike  them,  and  interpret 
them  by  their  own  feelings.  His  language  was  as  keenly 
incisive  as  the  stroke  of  a  hatchet. 

*  I  shall  not  go  to  Batz,'  said  Pauline,  when  we  reached 
the  outer  rim  of  the  lake. 

We  went  back  to  Croisic  by  way  of  the  salt  marshes, 
the  fisherman  guiding  us  through  the  labyrinth.  He 
also  had  grown  silent.     Our  mood  had  changed.     Both 


A  Seaside  Tragedy  289 

of  us  were  deep  in  melancholy  musings,  and  saddened  by 
the  mournful  story  which  explained  the  swift  presenti- 
ment that  we  had  felt  at  the  sight  of  Cambremer.  We 
had  each  of  us  sufficient  knowledge  of  human  nature  to 
fill  in  the  outlines  of  the  three  lives  that  our  guide  had 
sketched  for  us.  The  tragedy  of  these  three  human 
beings  rose  up  before  us  as  if  we  saw  scene  after  scene  of  a 
drama  crowned  by  the  father's  expiation  of  an  inevitable 
crime.  We  did  not  dare  to  look  at  the  rocks  where  he 
sat,  the  fate-bound  soul  who  struck  terror  into  a  whole 
country-side.  A  few  clouds  overcast  the  sky.  The  mist 
rose  on  the  horizon  of  the  sea.  We  were  walking 
through  the  most  acrid  dreariness  that  I  have  ever  seen  ; 
the  earth  beneath  our  feet  seemed  sick  and  unwholesome 
in  these  salt  marshes  which,  with  good  reason,  might  be 
called  a  cutaneous  eruption  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  ground  is  scored  over  in  rough  squares,  with  high 
banks  of  grey  earth  about  them  ;  each  is  full  of  brackish 
water  ;  the  salt  rises  to  the  surface.  These  artificial 
hollows  are  intersected  by  raised  pathways,  on  which 
the  workmen  stand  to  skim  the  surface  of  the  pools 
with  long  scrapers  j  and  the  salt,  when  collected,  is 
deposited  to  drain  on  circular  platforms  set  at  even 
distances,  till  it  is  fit  to  lay  up  in  heaps.  For  two  hours 
we  skirted  this  dreary  chessboard,  where  the  salt  stops 
the  growth  of  any  green  thing  ;  occasionally,  at  long 
intervals,  we  came  upon  one  or  two  paludiers^  so  they  call 
the  men  who  work  among  the  salt  marshes.  These 
workers,  or  it  should  rather  be  said,  this  race  apart  among 
the  Bretons,  wears  a  special  costume,  a  white  jacket 
rather  like  those  that  brewers  wear.  They  marry  only 
among  themselves  ;  a  girl  belonging  to  this  tribe  has 
never  been  known  to  marry  any  one  but  a  paludier. 
The  hideous  desolation  of  those  swamps  where  the  boggy 
soil  is  scraped  up  into  symmetrical  heaps,  the  greyness  of 
the  soil,  from  which  every  Breton  flower  shrinks  in 
disgust,   was   in    keeping   with    the   sadness    within    us. 

T 


290  A  Seaside  Tragedy 

We  reached  the  spot  where  you  cross  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
the  channel  doubtless  through  which  the  salt  water 
breaks  in  upon  the  low-lying  land  and  leaves  its  deposits 
on  the  soil,  and  we  were  glad  to  see  the  scanty  plant-life 
growing  along  the  edge  of  the  sand.  As  we  crossed  it, 
we  saw  the  island  in  the  lagoon  where  the  Cambremers 
once  lived,  and  turned  our  heads  away. 

When  we  reached  our  inn  we  noticed  a  billiard-table 
in  the  room  on  the  ground  floor,  and  when  we  learned 
that  it  was  the  only  public  billiard-table  in  Croisic,  we 
made  our  preparations  for  departure  that  night,  and  on 
the  morrow  we  went  to  Guérande. 

Pauline  was  still  depressed,  and  I  myself  felt  a  return 
of  the  burning  sensation  that  scorches  my  brain.  I  was 
so  grievously  haunted  by  the  visions  of  those  three  lives 
that  I  had  conjured  up,  that  Pauline  said,  '  Write  the 
story,  Louis,  and  the  fever  may  take  a  turn.' 

So,  dear  uncle,  I  have  written  the  story  for  you  ;  but 
our  adventure  has  already  undone  the  good  eflfects  of 
repose,  the  result  of  our  stay  here  and  at  the  Baths. 

Paris,  November  10, 1834, 


THE  RED  HOUSE 

To  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Custine. 

Once  upon  a  time  (I  forget  the  exact  year)  a  Parisian 
banker,  who  had  very  extensive  business  relations  with 
Germany,  gave  a  dinner  party  in  honour  of  one  of  the 
friends  that  merchants  make  in  this  place  and  that  by 
correspondence,  a  sort  of  friendship  that  subsists  for  a 
long  while  between  men  who  have  never  met.  The 
friend,  the  senior  partner  of  some  considerable  firm 
in  Nuremberg,  was  a  stout,  good-natured  German,  a 
man  of  learning  and  of  taste,  more  particularly  in  the 
matter  of  tobacco  pipes.  He  was  a  typical  Nurem- 
berger,  with  a  pleasant,  broad  countenance  and  a  massive, 
square  forehead,  with  a  few  stray  fair  hairs  here  and 
there  ;  a  typical  German,  a  son  of  the  stainless  and  noble 
Fatherland,  so  fertile  in  honourable  characters,  preserv- 
ing its  manners  uncorrupted  even  after  seven  invasions. 
The  stranger  laughed  simply,  listened  attentively,  and 
drank  with  marked  enjoyment,  seeming  to  like  cham- 
pagne perhaps  as  well  as  the  pale  red  wines  of  the 
Johannisberg.  Like  nearly  every  German  in  nearly 
every  book,  he  was  named  Hermann  ;  and  in  the 
quality  of  a  man  who  does  nothing  with  levity,  he  was 
comfortably  seated  at  the  banker's  table,  eating  his 
way  through  the  dinner  with  the  Teutonic  appetite 
renowned  all  over  Europe,  and  thorough  indeed  was 
his  manner  of  bidding  adieu  to  all  the  works  of  the 
great  Carême. 

291 


292  The  Red  House 

The  master  of  the  house  had  invited  several  intimate 
friends  to  do  honour  to  his  guest.  These  were  for  the 
most  part  capitalists  or  merchants,  interspersed  with  a 
few  pretty  and  agreeable  women,  whose  light,  graceful 
talk  and  frank  manner  harmonised  with  German  open- 
heartedness.  And,  indeed,  if  you  could  have  seen,  as  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing,  this  blithe  gathering  of  folk 
who  had  sheathed  the  active  claws  employed  in  raking- 
in  wealth,  that  they  might  make  the  best  of  an  oppor- 
tunity of  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  life,  you  would  scarcely 
have  found  it  in  your  heart  to  grudge  high  rates  of  interest 
or  to  revile  defaulters.  A  man  cannot  always  be  in 
mischief.  Even  in  the  society  of  pirates,  for  instance, 
there  must  surely  be  a  pleasant  hour  now  and  then  when 
you  may  feel  at  your  ease  beneath  the  black  flag. 

*  Oh,  I  do  hope  that  before  M.  Hermann  goes  he  will 
tell  us  another  dreadful,  thrilling  German  story  !  ' 

The  words  were  uttered  over  the  dessert  by  a  pale, 
fair-haired  young  lady,  who  had  doubtless  been  reading 
Hoffmann's  tales  and  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels.  She 
was  the  banker's  only  daughter,  an  irresistibly  charming 
girl,  whose  education  was  being  finished  at  the  Gymnase  ; 
she  was  wild  about  the  plays  given  there.  The  dinner 
party  had  just  reached  the  period  of  lazy  content  and 
serene  disinclination  to  talk  that  succeeds  an  excellent 
dinner  in  the  course  of  which  somewhat  heavy  demands 
have  been  made  upon  the  digestion  ;  when  the  guests 
lean  back  in  their  chairs  and  play  idly  with  the  gilded 
knife-blades,  while  their  wrists  repose  lightly  on  the 
table  edge;  the  period  of  decline  when  some  torment 
apple  pips,  or  knead  a  crumb  of  bread  between  thumb 
and  finger,  when  the  sentimental  write  illegible  initials 
among  the  débris  of  the  dessert,  and  the  penurious  count 
the  stones  on  their  plates,  and  arrange  them  round  the 
edge,  as  a  playwright  marshals  the  supernumeraries  at 
the  back  of  the  stage.  These  are  minor  gastronomical 
pleasures  which  Brillat-Savarin  has  passed  over  unnoticed. 


The  Red  House  293 

exhaustively  as  he  has  treated  his  subject  in  other 
respects. 

The  servants  had  disappeared.  The  dessert,  like  a 
squadron  after  an  action,  was  quite  disorganised,  dis- 
arrayed, forlorn.  In  spite  of  persistent  efforts  on  the 
part  of  the  mistress  of  the  house,  the  various  dishes 
strayed  about  the  table.  People  fixed  their  eyes  on  the 
Swiss  views  that  adorned  the  grey  walls  of  the  dining- 
room.  No  one  felt  it  tedious.  The  man  has  yet  to  be 
found  who  can  mope  while  he  digests  a  good  dinner. 
At  that  time  we  like  to  sit  steeped  in  an  indescribable 
calm,  a  sort  of  golden  mean  between  the  two  extremes 
of  the  thinker's  musings  and  the  sleek  content  of  the 
ruminating  brute,  which  should  be  termed  the  physical 
melancholy  of  gastronomy. 

So  the  party  turned  spontaneously  towards  the  worthy 
German,  all  of  them  delighted  to  listen  to  a  tale,  even  if 
it  should  be  a  dull  one.  During  this  beatific  pause,  the 
mere  sound  of  the  voice  of  the  one  who  tells  the  story  is 
soothing  to  our  languid  senses;  it  is  one  more  aid  to 
passive  enjoyment.  As  an  amateur  of  pictures,  I  watched 
the  faces,  bright  with  smiles,  lit  up  by  the  light  of  the 
tapers  and  flushed  with  good  cheer  ;  the  different  ex- 
pressions produced  piquant  effects  among  the  sconces, 
the  porcelain  baskets  of  fruit,  and  the  crystal  glasses. 

One  face,  exactly  opposite,  particularly  struck  my 
imagination.  It  belonged  to  a  middle-sized  man,  toler- 
ably stout  and  jovial-looking  ;  who  from  his  manner 
and  appearance  seemed  to  be  a  stockbroker,  and,  so 
far  as  one  could  see,  gifted  with  no  extraordinary 
amount  of  brains.  Hitherto  I  had  not  noticed  him,  but 
at  that  moment  his  face,  obscured,  to  be  sure,  by  a  bad 
light,  seemed  to  me  to  undergo  a  total  change  ;  it 
took  a  cadaverous  hue,  veined  with  purple  streaks.  You 
might  have  taken  it  for  the  ghastly  countenance  of  a 
man  in  the  death  agony.  Impassive  as  a  painted  figure 
in  a  diorama,  he  was  staring  stupidly  at  the  facets  of  a 


294  The  Red  House 

crystal  decanter-stopper,  but  he  certainly  took  no  heed 
of  them  ;  he  seemed  to  be  deep  in  some  visionary  con- 
templation of  the  future  or  of  the  past.  A  long  scrutiny 
of  this  dubious-looking  face  made  me  think. 

'  Is  he  ill  ?  '  I  asked  myself.  '  Has  he  taken  too  much 
wine  ?  Is  he  ruined  by  the  fall  of  the  funds  ?  Is  he 
thinking  how  to  cheat  his  creditors  ? — Look  !  '  I  said  to 
the  lady  who  sat  next  to  me,  calling  her  attention  to 
the  stranger's  face,  '  that  is  a  budding  bankruptcy,  is 
it  not  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  '  she  answered,  *  if  it  were,  he  would  be  in 
better  spirits.'  Then,  with  a  graceful  toss  of  her  head, 
she  added  :  'If  that  individual  ever  ruins  himself,  I  will 
take  the  news  to  Pekin  myself.  He  is  a  rather  eccentric 
old  gentleman  worth  a  million  in  real  estate  j  he  used 
to  be  a  contractor  to  the  Imperial  armies.  He  married 
again,  as  a  business  speculation,  but  he  makes  his  wife 
very  happy  for  all  that.  He  has  a  pretty  daughter,  whom 
for  a  very  long  time  he  would  not  recognise  ;  but  when 
his  son  died  by  a  sad  accident  in  a  duel,  he  was  obliged 
to  take  her  home,  for  he  was  not  likely  to  have  any  more 
children.  So  all  at  once  the  poor  girl  became  one  of  the 
richest  heiresses  in  Paris.  The  loss  of  his  only  son  threw 
the  poor  dear  man  into  great  grief,  and  he  still  shows 
signs  of  it  at  times.' 

As  she  spoke  the  army  contractor  looked  up,  and  our 
eyes  met  ;  his  expression  made  me  shudder,  it  was  so 
gloomy  and  so  sad.  Assuredly  a  whole  life  was  summed 
up  in  that  glance.  Then  in  a  moment  he  looked  cheer- 
ful. He  took  up  the  glass  stopper,  put  it  unthinkingly 
into  the  mouth  of  the  water  decanter  that  stood  on  the 
table  in  front  of  him,  and  turned  smiHngly  towards  M. 
Hermann.  The  man  was  positively  beaming  with  full- 
fed  content,  and  had,  no  doubt,  not  two  ideas  in  his 
head  ;  he  had  been  thinking  of  nothing  !  I  was  in  some 
sort  ashamed  to  have  thrown  away  my  powers  of  divina- 
tion   in    anima    vili,    to    have    taken    this    thick-skulled 


The  Red  House  295 

capitalist  as  a  subject.  But  while  I  was  making  my 
phrenological  observations  in  pure  waste,  the  good- 
aatured  German  had  flicked  a  few  grains  of  snufF  off  his 
face  and  begun  his  story. 

It  would  be  a  passably  difficult  matter  to  give  it  in 
the  same  words,  with  his  not  infrequent  interruptions 
and  wordy  digressions  ;  so  I  have  writ^ien  it  after  my 
own  fashion,  omitting  these  defects  of  the  Nuremberger's 
narrative,  and  helping  myself  to  such  elements  of  poetry 
and  interest  as  it  may  possess,  emulating  the  modesty  of 
other  writers  who  omit  the  formula  translated  from  the 
German  from  their  title-pages. 


THE   IDEA  AND  THE  DEED 


'Towards  the  end  of  Vendémiaire,  in  the  year  vu.  of 
the  Republican  era  (a  date  that  corresponds  to  the  20th 
of  October,  present  style),  two  young  men  were  making 
their  way  towards  Andernach,  a  little  town  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  a  few  leagues  from  Coblentz.  The 
travellers  had  set  out  from  Bonn  that  morning,  and  now 
the  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  At  that  particular  time 
a  French  army  under  command  of  General  Augereau 
was  keeping  in  check  the  Austrians  on  the  right  bank  of 
the  river.  The  headquarters  of  the  Republican  division 
were  at  Coblentz,  and  one  of  the  demi-brigades  belong- 
ing to  Augereau's  corps  was  quartered  in  Andernach. 

'  The  two  wayfarers  were  Frenchmen.  At  first  sight 
of  their  blue  and  white  uniforms,  with  red  velvet  facings, 
their  sabres,  and,  above  all,  their  caps  covered  with 
green  oilcloth  and  adorned  with  a  tricolour  cockade,  the 
German  peasants  themselves  might  have  known  them  for 


296  The  Red  House 

a  pair  of  army  surgeons,  men  of  science  and  of  sterling 
worth,  popular  for  the  most  part  not  only  in  the  army, 
but  also  in  the  countries  occupied  by  French  troops. 
At  that  time  many  young  men  of  good  family,  torn  from 
their  medical  studies  by  General  Jourdan's  conscription 
law,  not  unnaturally  preferred  to  continue  their  studies 
on  the  battlefield  to  compulsory  service  in  the  ranks,  a 
life  ill  suited  to  their  antecedents  and  unwarlike  ambi- 
tions. Men  of  this  stamp,  studious,  serviceable,  peace- 
ably inclined,  did  some  good  among  so  many  evils,  and 
found  congenial  spirits  among  the  learned  of  the  various 
countries  invaded  by  the  ruthless  affranchisement  of  the 
Republic. 

'  These  two,  provided  with  a  route  of  the  road,  and 
with  assistant-surgeons'  commissions  signed  by  La  Coste 
and  Bernadotte,  were  on  their  way  to  join  the  demi- 
brigade  to  which  they  were  attached.  Both  belonged 
to  well-to-do  middle  families  in  Beauvais,  and  traditions 
of  gentle  breeding  and  of  provincial  integrity  had  been  a 
part  of  their  inheritance.  A  curiosity  quite  natural  in 
youth  had  brought  them  to  the  seat  of  war  before  the 
time  fixed  for  entrance  on  active  service,  and  they  had 
come  by  the  diligence  as  far  as  Strasbourg.  Maternal 
prudence  had  suffered  them  to  leave  home  with  a  very 
scanty  supply  of  monev,  but  they  felt  rich  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  few  louis  ;  and,  indeed,  at  a  time  when  assignats 
had  reached  the  lowest  point  of  depreciation,  those  few 
louis  meant  wealth,  for  gold  was  at  a  high  premium. 

*The  two  assistant-surgeons,  aged  twenty  years  at  most, 
gave  themselves  up  to  the  romance  of  their  situation  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  They  had  traversed  the 
Palatinate  from  Strasbourg  to  Bonn  in  the  quality  of 
artists,  philosophers,  and  observers.  When  we  have  a 
scientific  career  before  us,  there  are,  in  truth,  at  that 
age  many  natures  within  us  ;  and  even  while  making 
love  or  travelling  about,  an  assistant-surgeon  should  be 
laying  the  foundations  of  his  future  fame  and  fortune. 


The  Red  House  297 

accordingly,  the  pair  had  been  carried  away  by  the 
Tofound  admiration  that  every  well-read  man  must  feel 
t  the  sight  of  the  scenery  of  Swabia  and  the  banks  of 
he  Rhine  between  Mayence  and  Cologne.  They  saw 
vigorous  and  fertile  country,  an  undulating  green  land- 
cape  full  of  strong  contrasts  and  of  memories  of  feudal 
imes,  and  everywhere  scarred  by  fire  and  sword. 
'  ouis  XIV.  and  Turenne  once  before  laid  that  fair  land 
n  ashes  ;  heaps  of  ruins  bear  witness  to  the  pride,  or, 
t  may  be,  to  the  prudence  of  the  monarch  of  Versailles, 
^ho  rased  the  wonderful  castles  which  once  were  the 
^lory  of  this  part  of  Germany.  You  arrive  at  some 
;onception  of  the  German  mind  ;  you  understand  its 
dreaminess  and  its  mysticism  from  this  wonderful  forest- 
and  of  theirs,  full  of  remains  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
Dicturesque,  albeit  in  ruins. 

*  The  two  friends  had  made  some  stay  in  Bonn  with 
two  objects  in  view — scientific  knowledge  and  pleasure. 
The  grand  hospital  of  the  Gallo-Batavian  army  and  of 
Augereau's  division  had  been  established  in  the  Electoral 
palace  itself,  and  thither  the  two  novices  had  gone  to  see 
their  comrades,  to  deliver  letters  of  recommendation  to 
their  chiefs,  and  to  make  their  first  acquaintance  with 
the  life  of  army  surgeons.  But  with  the  new  impres- 
sions, there  as  elsewhere,  they  parted  with  some  of  their 
national  prejudices,  and  discovered  that  France  had  no 
monopoly  of  beautiful  public  buildings  and  landscapes. 
The  marble  columns  that  adorn  the  Electoral  palace 
took  them  by  surprise  ;  they  admired  the  magnificence 
of  German  architecture  and  found  fresh  treasures  of 
ancient  and  modern  art  at  every  step. 

'Now  and  again  in  the  course  of  their  wanderings 
toward  Andernach  their  way  led  them  over  some  higher 
peak  among  the  granite  hills.  Through  a  clear  space 
in  the  forest,  or  a  chasm  in  the  rocks,  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  Rhine,  a  picture  framed  in  the  grey  stone, 
or  in  some  setting  of  luxuriant  trails   of  green   leaves. 


298  The  Red  House 

Every  valley,  field-path,  and  forest  was  filled  with  autumn 
scents  that  conduce  to  musings  and  with  signs  of  the 
aging  of  the  year  ;  the  tree-tops  were  turning  golden, 
taking  warmer  hues  and  shades  of  brown  ;  the  leaves  were 
falling,  but  the  sky  was  blue  and  cloudless  overhead  ;  the 
roads  were  dry,  and  shone  like  threads  of  gold  across  the 
country  in  the  late  afternoon  sunlight. 

'  Half  a  league  from  Andernach  the  country  through 
which  the  two  friends  were  travelling  lay  in  a  silence  as 
deep  as  if  there  were  no  war  laying  waste  the  beautiful 
land.  They  were  following  a  goat  track  among  the 
steep  crags  of  bluish  granite  that  rise  like  walls  above  the 
eddying  Rhine,  and  before  very  long  were  descending 
the  sloping  sides  of  the  ravine  above  the  little  town, 
nestlirïg  coyly  at  its  foot  on  the  river  bank,  its  pic- 
turesque quay  for  the  Rhine  boatmen. 

*  "  Germany  is  a  very  beautiful  country  !  "  cried  one 
of  the  two,  Prosper  Magnan  by  name,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  painted  houses  of  Andernach  lying  close 
together  like  eggs  in  a  basket,  among  the  trees  and 
flower-gardens. 

'For  a  few  minutes  they  looked  at  the  high-pitched 
roofs  with  their  projecting  beams,  at  the  balconies  and 
wooden  staircases  of  all  those  peaceful  dwellings,  and  at 
the  boats  swaying  in  the  current  by  the  quay.' 

When  M.  Hermann  mentioned  the  name  of  Prosper 
Magnan,  my  opposite  neighbour,  the  army  contractor, 
snatched  up  the  decanter,  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of 
water,  and  drank  it  down  at  a  gulp.  This  proceeding 
recalled  my  attention  to  him  ;  I  thought  I  saw  a  shght 
quiver  in  his  hands  and  a  trace  of  perspiration  on  his 
forehead. 

'  What  is  the  army  contractor's  name  ?  '  I  inquired  of 
my  gracious  neighbour. 

'  His  name  is  Taillefer,'  said  she. 

'  Are  you  feeling  unwell  ?  '  1  exclaimed,  as  this  un- 
accountable being  turned  pale. 


The  Red  House  299 

'  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,'  he  said,  with  a  courteous 
I  gesture  of  acknowledgment.  '  I  am  listening,'  he  said, 
with  a  nod  to  the  rest  of  the  party,  for  all  eyes  were 
turned  at  once  upon  him. 

*  I  forget  the  other  young  man's  name,'  said  M. 
Hermann.  '  But,  at  any  rate,  from  Prosper  Magnan's 
confidences  I  learned  that  his  friend  was  dark,  lively,  and 
rather  thin.  If  you  have  no  objection,  I  will  call  him 
Wilhelm  for  the  sake  of  clearness  in  the  story.'  And  the 
good  German  took  up  his  tale  again,  after  baptizing  a 
French  assistant  surgeon  with  a  German  name,  totally 
regardless  of  local  colour  and  of  the  demands  of  Ro- 
manticism. 

'So  by  the  time  these  two  young  fellows  reached 
Andernach  night  had  fallen  j  and  they,  fancying  that  it 
was  too  late  to  report  themselves  to  their  chiefs,  make 
themselves  known  and  obtain  billets  in  a  place  already 
full  of  soldiers,  made  up  their  minds  to  spend  their  last 
night  of  freedom  in  an  inn,  about  a  hundred  paces  out- 
side the  town.  They  had  seen  it  from  the  crags  above, 
and  had  admired  the  warm  colours  of  the  house,  height- 
ened by  the  glow  of  the  sunset.  The  whole  building 
was  painted  red,  and  produced  a  piquant  effect  in  the 
landscape,  whether  it  was  seen  against  the  crowd  of 
houses  in  the  town,  or  as  a  mass  of  bright  colour  against 
a  background  of  forest  trees,  or  a  patch  of  scarlet  by 
the  grey  water's  edge.  Doubtless  the  inn  owed  its 
external  decoration,  and  consequently  its  name,  to  the 
whim  of  the  builder  in  some  forgotten  time.  The 
colour  had  come  to  be  literally  a  matter  of  custom  to 
successive  owners,  for  the  inn  had  a  name  among  the 
Rhine  boatmen  who  frequented  it.  The  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  brought  the  landlord  of  the  Red  House  to  the 
threshold. 

^'■^  Pardieu  !  gentlemen,"  cried  he,  "a  little  later  you 
would  have  had  to  sleep  out  of  doors  like  most  of  your 
countrymen    bivouacking    yonder  at  the  other   end  of 


300  The  Red  House 

Andernach.  The  house  is  full.  If  you  positively  must 
have  a  bed  to  sleep  in,  I  have  only  my  own  room  to 
offer  you.  As  for  the  horses,  I  can  lay  down  some  litter 
in  a  corner  of  the  yard  for  them  j  my  stables  are  full  of 
christened  men  this  day. — The  gentlemen  will  be  from 
France  ?  "  he  went  on  after  a  brief  pause. 

*  "  From  Bonn,"  cried  Prosper,  "  and  we  have  had 
nothing  to  eat  since  morning." 

'  "  Oh  !  as  to  victuals,"  said  the  landlord,  jerking  his 
head,  "  people  come  to  the  Red  House  for  ten  leagues 
round  for  wedding  feasts.  You  shall  have  a  banquet  fit 
for  a  prince,  fish  from  the  Rhine  !  That  tells  you 
everything." 

'When  they  had  given  over  their  tired  beasts  into  the 
host's  care,  they  left  him  to  shout  in  vain  for  the  stable 
folk,  and  went  into  the  public  room  of  the  inn.  It  was 
so  full  of  dense  white  clouds  blown  from  the  pipes  of  a 
room-full  of  smokers,  that  at  first  they  could  not  make 
out  what  kind  of  company  they  had  fallen  among  ;  but 
after  they  had  sat  for  a  while  at  a  table,  and  put  in  practice 
the  patience  of  travelled  philosophers  who  know  when  it 
is  useless  to  make  a  fuss,  they  gradually  made  out  the 
inevitable  accessories  of  a  German  inn.  The  stove,  the 
clock,  the  tables,  pots  of  beer  and  long  pipes,  loomed  out 
through  the  tobacco  smoke  ;  so  did  the  faces  of  the 
motley  crew,  Jews,  Germans,  and  what  not,  with  one  or 
two  rough  boatmen  thrown  in. 

*  The  epaulettes  of  a  few  French  officers  shone  through 
the  thick  mist,  and  spurs  and  sabres  clanked  incessantly 
upon  the  flagstones.  Some  were  playing  at  cards,  the 
rest  quarrelled  among  themselves,  or  were  silent,  ate, 
or  drank,  and  came  or  went.  A  stout  little  woman, 
who  wore  the  black  velvet  cap,  blue  stomacher  embroid- 
ered with  silver,  the  pincushion,  bunch  of  keys,  silver 
clasps,  and  plaited  hair  of  the  typical  German  landlady 
(a  costume  made  so  familiar  in  all  its  details  by  a  host  of 
prints  that    it   is   too  well  known  to  need  description), 


The  Red  House  301 

ame  to  the  two  friends  and  soothed  their  impatience, 
while  she  stimulated  their  interest  in  their  supper  with 
very  remarkable  skill. 

*  Gradually  the  noise  diminished,  the  travellers  went  off 
3ne  by  one,  the  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  cleared  away. 
By  the  time  that  the  table  was  set  for  the  assistant 
surgeons,  and  the  classic  carp  from  the  Rhine  appeared, 
it  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  room  was  empty.  Through 
the  stillness  of  the  night  it  was  possible  to  hear  faint 
noises  of  horses  stamping  or  crunching  their  provender,  the 
ripple  of  the  Rhine,  the  vague  indefinable  sounds  in  an 
inn  full  of  people  when  every  one  has  retired  to  rest. 
Doors  and  windows  opened  or  shut  ;  there  was  an 
inarticulate  murmur  of  voices,  or  a  name  was  called  out 
in  some  room  overhead.     During  this  time  of  silence  and 

f  commotion,  while  the  two  Frenchmen  were  eating  their 
supper  and  the  landlord  engaged  in  extolling  Andernach, 
the  meal,  his  Rhine  wine,  his  wife,  and  the  Republican 
army,  for  the  benefit  of  his  guests,  the  three  heard,  with  a 
certain  degree  of  interest,  the  hoarse  shouts  of  boatmen 
and  the  rattling  sound  of  a  boat  being  moored  alongside 
the  quay.  The  innkeeper,  doubtless  accustomed  to  be 
hailed  by  the  guttural  cries  of  the  boatmen,  hurried  out, 
and  soon  came  in  again  with  a  short,  stout  man,  a  couple 
of  the  boat's  crew  following  them  with  a  heavy  valise  and 
several  packages.  As  soon  as  the  baggage  was  deposited 
in  the  room,  the  short  man  picked  up  his  valise  and 
seated  himself  without  ceremony  at  the  table  opposite 
the  two  surgeons. 

'  "  You  can  sleep  on  board,"  said  he  to  the  boatmen,  "as 
the  inn  is  full.  All  things  considered,  that  will  be  the 
best  way." 

*  "  All  the  provisions  I  have  in  the  house  are  here  before 
you,  sir,"  said  the  landlord,  and  he  indicated  the  French- 
men's supper.  **  I  have  not  a  crust  of  bread,  and  not  so 
much  as  a  bone " 

'"  And  no  sauerkraut  ?  " 


302  The  Red  House 

'  "  Not  so  much  as  would  fill  my  wife's  thimble  !  As  1 
had  the  honour  of  telling  you  just  now,  you  can  have  no 
bed  but  the  chair  you  are  sitting  on,  and  this  is  the  only 
unoccupied  room." 

'  At  these  words  the  short  personage  glanced  at  the 
landlord,  at  the  room,  and  at  the  two  Frenchmen,  caution 
and  alarm  equally  visible  in  the  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance. 

*  At  this  point,'  said  M.  Hermann,  interrupting  him- 
self, '  I  should  tell  you  that  we  never  knew  this  stranger's 
real  name,  nor  his  history  ;  we  found  out  from  his  papers 
that  he  came  from  Aix-la-Chapelle,  that  he  had  assumed 
the  name  of  Walhenfer,  and  owned  a  rather  large  pin- 
factory  somewhere  near  Neuwied — that  was  all. 

*  He  wore,  like  other  manufacturers  in  that  part  of 
the  world,  an  ordinary  cloth  overcoat,  waistcoat  and 
breeches  of  dark-green  velvet,  high  boots,  and  a  broad 
leather  belt.  His  face  was  perfectly  round,  his  manners 
frank  and  hearty,  and  during  the  evening  he  found  it 
very  difficult  to  disguise  some  inward  apprehensions,  or,  it 
may  be,  cruel  anxieties.  The  innkeeper  always  said 
that  the  German  merchant  was  flying  the  country,  and  I 
lear.ied  later  on  that  his  factory  had  been  burned  down 
through  one  of  the  unlucky  accidents  so  frequent  in 
time  of  war.  But  in  spite  of  the  uneasy  look  that  his  face 
generally  wore,  its  natural  expression  denoted  good- 
humour  and  good-nature.  He  had  good  features,  and 
a  particularly  noticeable  personal  trait  was  a  thick  neck, 
so  white  in  contrast  with  a  black  cravat,  that  Wilhelm 
jokingly  pointed  it  out  to  Prosper ' 

Here  M.  Taillefer  drank  another  glass  of  water. 

*  Prosper  courteously  invited  the  merchant  to  share 
their  supper,  and  Walhenfer  fell  to  without  more  ado, 
like  a  man  who  is  conscious  that  he  can  repay  a  piece  of 
civility.  He  set  down  his  valise  on  the  floor,  put  his 
feet  upon  it,  took  off  his  hat,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table, 
and  laid  down  his  gloves  beside  him,  together  with  a  pair 


The  Red  House  303 

pistols,  which  he  carried  in  his  belt.  The  landlord 
xickly  laid  a  cover  for  him,  and  the  three  began  to 
tisfy  their  hunger  silently  enough. 
'  The  room  was  so  close  and  the  flies  so  troublesome, 
at  Prosper  besought  the  landlord  to  open  the  window 
lat  looked  out  upon  the  quay  to  let  in  fresh  air.  This 
indow  was  fastened  by  an  iron  bar  that  dropped  into  a 
cket  on  either  side  of  the  window  frame,  and  for 
eater  security,  a  nut  fastened  to  each  of  the  shutters 
ceived  a  bolt.  It  so  happened  that  Prosper  watched 
e  landlord  unfasten  the  window. 

'But  since  I  am  going  into  these  particulars,'  M. 
ermann  remarked,  '  I  ought  to  describe  the  internal 
rangements  of  the  house  ;  for  the  whole  interest  of  the 
ory  depends  on  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  place. 
*  There  were  two  entrance  doors  in  the  room  where 
lese  three  personages  were  sitting.  One  opened  on  to 
le  road  that  followed  the  river  bank  to  Andernach,  and, 
might  be  expected,  just  opposite  the  inn,  there  was  a 
:tle  jetty  where  the  boat  which  the  merchant  had  hired 

his  voyage  was  moored  at  that  moment.  The  other 
)or  gave  admittance  to  the  inn-yard,  a  court  shut  in  by 
;ry  high  walls,  and  at  the  moment  full  of  horses  and 
ittle,  for  human  beings  occupied  the  stables. 

The  house  door  had  been  so  carefully  bolted  and 
irred  that,  to  save  time,  the  landlord  had  opened  the 
reet  door  of  the  sitting-room  to  admit  the  merchant 
id  the  boatmen,  and  now,  when  he  had  opened  the 
indow  at  Prosper  Magnan's  instance,  he  set  to  work 
»  shut  this  door,  slipping  the  bolts  and  screwing  the 

[Its. 

'The  landlord's  bedroom,  where  the  friends  were  to 
eep,  was  next  to  the  public  room  of  the  inn,  and  only 
;parated  from  the  kitchen,  where  the  host  and  hostess 
ere  probably  to  pass  the  night,  by  a  sufficiently  thin 
irtition  wall.  The  maid-servant  had  just  gone  out  to 
nd  a  nook  in  some  manger,  or  in  the  corner  of  a  hay 


304  The  Red  House 

loft  somewhere  or  other.  It  will  be  readily  understood 
that  the  public  room,  the  landlord's  bedroom,  and  the 
kitchen  were  in  a  manner  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
inn.  The  deep  barking  of  two  great  dogs  in  the  yard 
indicated  that  the  house  had  vigilant  and  wakeful 
guardians. 

*  "  How  quiet  it  is,  and  what  a  glorious  night  !  "  said 
Wilhelm,  looking  out  at  the  sky  when  the  landlord  had 
bolted  the  door.  There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  at 
the  moment  save  the  rippling  of  the  water. 

'  "  Gentlemen,"  said  the  merchant,  addressing  the 
Frenchmen,  "  allow  me  to  offer  you  a  bottle  or  two  of 
wine  to  wash  down  your  carp.  A  glass  will  refresh  us 
after  a  tiring  day.  By  the  look  of  you  and  the  condition 
of  your  clothes,  I  can  see  that,  like  myself,  you  have  come 
a  good  way." 

'  The  two  friends  accepted  the  proposal,  and  the  landlord 
went  out  through  the  kitchen  to  the  cellar,  doubtless 
situated  beneath  that  part  of  the  establishment.  About 
the  time  that  five  venerable  bottles  appeared  upon  the 
table,  the  landlord's  wife  had  finished  serving  the  supper. 
She  gave  a  housewife's  glance  over  the  dishes  and  round 
the  room,  assured  herself  that  the  travellers  had  every- 
thing they  were  likely  to  want,  and  went  back  to  the 
kitchen.  The  four  boon  companions,  for  the  host  was 
asked  to  join  the  party,  did  not  hear  her  go  off  to  bed  j 
but  before  long,  in  the  pauses  of  the  chat  over  the  wine, 
there  came  an  occasional  very  distinct  sound  of  snoring 
from  the  loft  above  the  kitchen  where  she  was  sleeping, 
a  sound  rendered  still  more  resonant  by  reason  of  the 
thin  plank  floor.  This  made  the  guests  smile,  and  the 
landlord  smiled  still  more. 

*  Towards  midnight,  when  there  was  nothing  left  on 
the  table  but  cheese  and  biscuits,  dried  fruit,  and  good 
wine,  the  whole  party,  and  the  young  Frenchmen  more 
particularly,  grew  communicative.  They  talked  about 
their  country,  their  studies,  and  the  war.     After  a  while 


The  Red  House  305 

he  conversation  grew  lively.  Prosper  Magnan  drew 
ears  to  the  merchant's  eyes  when,  with  a  Picard's  frank- 
less  and  the  simplicity  of  a  kindly  and  affectionate 
lature,  he  began  to  imagine  what  his  mother  would  be 
loing  while  he,  her  son,  was  here  on  the  bank  of  the 
Ihine. 

'"It  is  just  as  if  I  can  see  her,"  he  said  ;  "  she  is  reading 
he  evening  prayer,  the  last  thing  at  night  !  She  will 
lot  forget  me  I  know  ;  she  is  sure  to  say,  '  Where  is 
ny  poor  Prosper,  I  wonder  ?  '  Then  if  she  has  won  a 
ew  sous  at  cards — of  your  mother  perhaps,"  he  added, 
ogging  Wilhelm's  elbow — "  she  will  be  putting  them  in 
:he  big  red  jar,  where  she  keeps  the  money  she  is  saving 
ip  to  buy  those  thirty  acres  that  lie  within  her  own 
ittle  bit  of  land  at  Lescheville.  The  thirty  acres  will 
DC  worth  something  like  sixty  thousand  francs.  Good 
neadow  land  it  is  !  Ah  !  if  I  were  to  have  it  some  day, 
I  would  live  all  the  rest  of  my  life  at  Lescheville,  and 
want  nothing  better  !  How  often  my  father  wanted 
those  thirty  acres  and  the  nice  little  stream  that  winds 
ilong  through  the  fields  !  And,  after  all,  he  died  and  could 
not  buy  the  land.  ...  I  have  played  there  many  and 
many  a  time  !  " 

■  "  M.  Walhenfer,  haven't  you  also  your  hoc  erat  in 
votis  ?  "  asked  Wilhelm. 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes  !  But  it  all  came  to  me  as  it  was, 
and  now  ..."  the  good  man  stopped  short  and  said  no 
more. 

'  "  For  my  own  part,"  said  the  landlord,  whose  counte- 
nance was  slightly  flushed,  "  I  bought  a  bit  of  meadow 
last  year  that  I  had  set  my  mind  on  these  ten  years  past." 

'  So  they  chatted  on,  as  folk  will  talk  when  wine  has 
unloosed  their  tongues,  and  struck  up  one  of  those 
travellers'  friendships  that  we  are  little  chary  of  making 
on  a  journey,  in  such  a  sort  that  when  they  rose  to  go  to 
their  room  Wilhelm  offered  his  bed  to  the  merchant. 
"  You  can  take  the  offer  without  hesitation,"  he  said, 
u 


3o6  The  Red  House 

"for  Prosper  and  I  can  sleep  together.  It  will  not  be 
the  first  time  nor  the  last  either,  I  expect.  You  are  the 
oldest  among  us,  and  we  ought  to  honour  old  age." 

*  "  Pooh  !  "  said  the  landlord,  "  there  are  several  mat- 
tresses on  our  bed,  one  can  be  laid  on  the  floor  for  you," 
and  he  went  to  shut  the  window  with  the  usual  clatter 
caused  by  this  precaution. 

'"I  accept  your  offer,"  said  the  merchant,  addressing 
Wilhelm.  "  I  confess,"  he  added,  lowering  his  voice, 
and  looking  at  the  friends,  "  that  I  wanted  you  to  make 
it.  I  feel  that  I  cannot  trust  my  boatmen  ;  and  I  am 
not  sorry  to  find  myself  in  the  company  of  two  decent 
young  fellows,  two  French  military  men,  moreover,  for 
the  night.  I  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  in  gold 
and  diamonds  in  that  valise." 

'  The  two  younger  men  received  this  incautious  com- 
munication with  a  discreet  friendliness  that  reassured  the 
worthy  German.  The  landlord  helped  his  guests  to 
shift  one  of  the  mattresses,  and,  when  things  had  been 
arranged  as  comfortably  as  possible,  wished  them  a  good 
night  and  went  off  to  bed.  The  merchant  and  the 
surgeons  joked  each  other  about  their  pillows.  Prosper 
put  Wilhelm's  case  of  surgical  instruments,  as  well 
as  his  own,  under  the  mattress,  to  raise  the  end  and 
supply  the  place  of  a  bolster,  just  as  Walhenfer,  in  an 
access  of  extreme  caution,  bestowed  his  valise  under  his 
bolster. 

'  "  We  are  both  going  to  sleep  on  our  fortunes — you 
on  your  money,  and  I  on  my  case  of  instruments  !  It 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  my  case  will  bring  me  in  as 
much  money  as  you  have  made." 

'  "  You  may  hope  so,"  said  the  merchant.  **  Honest 
work  will  accomplish  most  things,  but  you  must  have 
patience." 

'  Before  very  long  Walhenfer  and  Wilhelm  fell  asleep. 
But  whether  it  was  because  his  bed  was  too  hard,  or  he 
himself  was  over-tired  and   wakeful,  or  through    some 


The  Red  House  307 

nlucky  mood  of  mind,  Prosper  Magnan  lay  broad 
wake.  Imperceptibly  his  thoughts  took  an  ill  turn, 
ie  could  think  of  nothing  but  that  hundred  thousand 
rancs  beneath  the  merchant's  pillow.  For  him  a 
undred  thousand  francs  was  a  vast  fortune  ready 
nade.  He  began  by  laying  out  the  money  in  endless 
i^ays,  building  castles  in  the  air,  as  we  are  all  apt  to  do 
viih  so  much  enjoyment  just  before  we  drop  off  to 
leep,  when  indistinct  and  hazy  ideas  arise  in  our  minds, 
nd  not  seldom  night  and  silence  give  a  magical  vivid- 
less  to  our  thoughts. 

*  In  these  visions  Prosper  Magnan  overtopped  his 
nother's  ambitions;  he  bought  the  thirty  acres  of 
neadow,  and  married  a  young  lady  in  Beauvais,  to 
vhose  hand  he  could  not  aspire  at  present  owing  to 
nequality  of  fortune.  With  this  wealth  he  planned 
)ut  a  whole  pleasant  lifetime,  saw  himself  the  prosperous 
"ather  of  a  family,  rich,  looked  up  to  in  the  neighbour- 
lood,  possibly  even  Mayor  of  Beauvais.  The  Picard  head 
vas  on  fire  j  he  cast  about  for  the  means  of  realising 
hese  dreams  of  his.  With  extraordinary  warmth  of 
magination  he  set  himself  to  plan  out  a  crime,  and  gold 
md  diamonds  were  the  most  vivid  and  distinct  portion 
f  a  vision  of  the  merchant's  death  ;  the  glitter  dazzled 
tiim.  His  heart  beat  fast.  He  had  committed  a  crime, 
10  doubt,  by  harbouring  such  thoughts  as  these.  The 
pell  of  the  gold  was  upon  him  ;  his  moral  nature  was 
ntoxicated  by  insidious  reasonings.  He  asked  himself 
whether  there  was  any  reason  why  the  poor  German 
hould  live,  and  imagined  how  it  would  have  been  if  he 
had  never  existed.  To  put  it  briefly,  he  plotted  out  a 
way  to  do  the  deed  with  complete  impunity. 

'  The  Austrians  held  the  other  bank  of  the  Rhine  ;  a 
boat  lay  there  under  the  windows  ;  there  were  boatmen 
there  ;  he  could  cut  the  man's  throat,  fling  him  into  the 
Rhine,  escape  with  the  valise  through  a  casement,  bribe 
the  boatmen,  and  go  over  to  the  Austrian  side.     He  even 


3o8  The  Red  House 

went  so  far  as  to  count  upon  his  surgeon's  dexterity  with 
the  knife  ;  he  knew  of  a  way  of  decapitating  his  victim 
before  the  sleeper  could  utter  a  single  shriek  .  .  .' 

M.  Taillefer  wiped  his  forehead  at  this  point,  and 
again  he  drank  a  little  water» 

*  Then  Prosper  Magnan  rose — slowly  and  noiselessly. 
He  assured  himself  that  he  had  awakened  nobody,  dressed 
and  went  into  the  public  room.  Then,  with  the  fatal 
lucidity  of  mind  that  suddenly  comes  at  certain  crises, 
with  the  heightened  power  of  intuition  and  strength  ot 
will  that  is  never  lacking  to  criminals  or  to  prisoners  in 
the  execution  of  their  designs,  he  unscrewed  the  iron 
bars,  and  drew  them  from  their  sockets,  and  set  them 
against  the  wall  without  the  slightest  sound,  hanging 
with  all  his  weight  on  to  the  shutters  lest  they  should 
creak  as  they  turned  on  their  hinges.  In  the  pale  moon- 
light he  could  dimly  see  the  objects  in  the  room  where 
Wilhelm  and  Walhenfer  were  sleeping. 

'  Then,  he  told  me,  he  stopped  short  for  a  moment. 
His  heart  beat  so  hard  and  so  heavily,  that  the  sound 
seemed  to  ring  through  the  room,  and  he  stood  like  one 
dismayed  as  he  heard  it.  He  began  to  fear  for  his  cool 
ness  ;  his  hands  shook,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  standing  on 
burning  coals.  But  so  fair  a  prospect  depended  upon  the 
execution  of  his  design,  that  he  saw  something  like  a 
providence  in  this  dispensation  of  fate  that  had  brought 
the  merchant  thither.  He  opened  the  window,  went 
back  to  his  room,  took  up  his  case,  and  looked  through  it 
for  an  instrument  best  adapted  to  his  purpose. 

'  "  And  when  I  stood  by  the  bed  "  (he  told  me  this), 
"  I  asked  God  for  His  protection,  unthinkingly." 

'  He  had  just  raised  his  arm,  and  was  summoning  all 
his  strength  for  the  blow,  when  somr''hing  like  a  voice 
cried  within  him,  and  he  thought  he  saw  a  light.  He 
flung  down  the  surgical  instrument  on  his  bed,  fled  into 
the  next  room,  and  stood  at  the  window.  A  profound 
horror    of    himself  came   over    him,   and    feeling    how 


The  Red  House  309 

ittle  he  could  trust  himself,  fearing  to  yield  to  the 
"ascination  that  held  him,  he  sprang  quickly  out  of 
he  window  and  walked  along  by  the  Rhine,  acting  as 
lentinel,  as  it  were,  before  the  inn.  Again  and  again 
le  walked  restlessly  to  and  from  Andernach,  often  also 
lis  wanderings  led  him  to  the  slope  of  the  ravine  which 
:hey  had  descended  that  afternoon  to  reach  the  inn  j  but  so 
leep  was  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  so  strong  his  dread 
jf  arousing  the  watch-dogs,  that  he  kept  away  from  the 
Red  House,  and  lost  sight  altogether  more  than  once  of 
:he  window  that  he  had  left  open.  He  tried  to  weary 
limself  out,  and  so  to  induce  sleep.  Yet,  as  he  walked 
o  and  fro  under  the  cloudless  sky,  watching  the  brilliant 
itars,  it  may  be  that  the  pure  night  air  and  the  melancholy 
apping  of  the  water  wrought  upon  him,  and  restored  him 
by  degrees  to  moral  sanity.  Sober  reason  completed  the 
work  and  dispelled  that  short-lived  madness.  His  educa- 
tion, the  precepts  of  religion,  and,  above  all  things  (so  he 
told  me),  visions  of  the  homely  life  that  he  had  led  beneath 
his  father's  roof,  got  the  better  of  his  evil  thoughts.  He 
thought  and  pondered  for  long,  his  elbow  resting  on  a 
boulder  by  the  side  of  the  Rhine;  and  when  he  turned  to 
go  in  again,  he  could  not  only  have  slept,  so  he  said,  but 
have  watched  over  millions  of  gold. 

'When  his  honesty  emerged  strengthened  and  trium- 
phant from  that  ordeal,  he  knelt  in  joy  and  ecstasy  to 
thank  God  ;  he  felt  as  happy,  light-hearted,  and  content 
as  on  the  day  when  he  took  the  sacrament  for  the  first 
time,  and  felt  not  unworthy  of  the  angels  because  he  had 
spent  the  day  without  sin  in  word,  or  thought,  or  deed. 

'  He  went  back  again  to  the  inn,  shut  the  window 
without  care  to  move  noiselessly,  and  went  to  bed  at 
once.  Mind  and  body  were  utterly  exhausted,  and  sleep 
overcame  him.  He  had  scarcely  laid  his  head  on  the 
mattress  before  the  dreamy  drowsiness  that  precedes  sound 
slumber  crept  over  him  ;  when  the  senses  grow  torpid, 
conscious  life   ebbs  away,   thought  grows   fragmentary. 


3IO  The  Red  House 

and  the  last  communications  of  sense  to  the  brain  are  Hke 
the  impressions  of  a  dream. 

*  "  How  close  the  air  is  !  "  said  Prosper  to  himself. 
"  It  is  just  as  if  I  were  breathing  a  damp  mist  .  .  ." 

'  Dimly  he  sought  to  account  for  this  state  of  things 
by  attributing  it  to  the  difference  between  the  outside 
temperature  in  the  pure  country  air  and  the  closed  room  ; 
but  before  long  he  heard  a  constantly  recurring  sound, 
very  much  like  the  slow  drip  of  water  from  a  leaking  tap. 
On  an  impulse  of  panic  terror,  he  thought  of  rising  and 
calling  the  landlord,  or  the  merchant,  or  Wilhelm  ;  but, 
for  his  misfortune,  he  bethought  himself  of  the  wooden 
clock  in  the  next  room,  fancied  that  the  sound  was  the 
beat  of  the  pendulum,  and  dropped  off  to  sleep  with  this 
dim  and  confused  idea  in  his  head.' 

*  Do  you  want  some  water,  M.  Taillefer  ?  '  asked  the 
master  of  the  house,  seeing  the  banker  take  up  the 
empty  decanter  mechanically. 

M.  Hermann  went  on  with  his  story  after  the  slight 
interruption  of  the  banker's  reply. 

'  The  next  morning,'  he  went  on,  *  Prosper  Magnan 
was  awakened  by  a  great  noise.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  heard  shrill  cries,  and  he  felt  that  violent  nervous 
tremor  which  we  experience  when  we  wake  to  a  painful 
sensation  that  began  during  slumber.  The  thing  that 
takes  place  in  us  when  we  "  wake  with  a  start,"  to  use 
the  common  expression,  has  been  insufficiently  investi 
gated,  though  it  presents  interesting  problems  to  physio 
logical  science.  The  terrible  shock,  caused  it  may  be  by 
the  too  sudden  reunion  of  the  two  natures  in  us  that  are 
almost  always  apart  while  we  sleep,  is  usually  momentary, 
but  it  was  not  so  for  the  unlucky  young  surgeon.  The 
horror  grew,  and  his  hair  bristled  hideously  all  at  once, 
when  he  saw  a  pool  of  blood  between  his  own  mattress  and 
Walhenfer's  bedstead.  The  unfortunate  German's  head 
was  lying  on  the  fioor,  the  body  was  still  on  the  bed,  all 
this  blood  had  drained  from  the  neck.     Prosper  Magnan 


The  Red  House  311 

aw  Walhenfer's  eyes  unclosed  and  staring,  saw  red  on 
he  sheets  that  he  had  slept  in,  and  even  on  his  own 
lands,  saw  his  own  surgeon's  knife  on  the  bed,  and 
ainted  away  on  the  blood-stained  floor. 

'  "  I  was  punished  already  for  my  thoughts,"  he  said  to 
ne  afterwards. 

'  When  he  came  to  himself  again,  he  was  sitting  in  a 
:hair  in  the  public  room  of  the  inn,  a  group  of  French 
ioldiers  round  about  him,  and  an  inquisitive  and  interested 
rowd.  He  stared  in  dull  bewilderment  at  a  Republican 
jfficer  who  was  busy  taking  down  the  depositions  of 
everal  witnesses  and  drawing  up  an  official  report  ;  he 
•ecognised  the  landlord  and  his  wife,  the  two  boatmen, 
and  the  maid-servant.  The  surgical  instrument  used  by 
the  murderer ' 

Here  M.  Taillefer  coughed,  drew  out  his  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, and  wiped  his  forehead.  His  movements  were 
so  natural,  that  I  alone  noticed  them  ;  indeed,  all  eyes 
were  fixed  on  M.  Hermann  with  a  kind  of  greedy 
interest.  The  army-contractor  leant  his  elbow  on  the 
table,  propped  his  head  on  his  right  hand,  and  looked 
fixedly  at  Hermann.  From  that  time  forward  I  saw  no 
involuntary  signs  of  agitation  nor  of  interest  in  the  tale, 
but  his  face  was  grave  and  corpse-like;  he  looked  just 
as  he  had  done  while  he  was  playing  with  the  decanter- 
stopper. 

'  The  surgical  instrument  used  by  the  murderer  lay  on 
the  table,  beside  the  case  with  Prosper's  pocket-book 
and  papers.  The  crowd  looked  by  turns  at  the  young 
surgeon  and  at  these  convincing  proofs  of  his  guilt  ;  he 
himself  appeared  to  be  dying;  his  dull  eyes  seemed  to 
have  no  power  of  sight  in  them.  A  confused  murmur 
outside  made  it  evident  that  a  crowd  had  gathered  about 
the  inn,  attracted  bv  the  news  of  the  murder,  and  perhaps 
by  a  wish  to  catch  a  sight  of  the  criminal.  The  tramp 
of  the  sentries  posted  under  the  windows  and  the  clanking 
of  their  weapons  rose  over  the  whispered   talk  of  the 


312  The  Red  House 

populace.     The  inn  itself  was  shut  up,  the  courtyard  was 
silent  and  deserted. 

*  The  gaze  of  the  officer  who  was  drawing  up  the  report 
was  intolerable  ;  Prosper  Magnan  felt  some  one  grasp  his 
hand;  looked  up  to  see  who  it  was  that  stood  by  him 
among  that  unfriendly  crowd,  and  recognised,  by  the 
uniform  that  he  wore,  the  senior  surgeon  of  the  demi- 
brigade  quartered  in  Andernach.  So  keen  and  merciless 
were  those  eyes,  that  the  poor  young  fellow  shuddered, 
and  his  head  dropped  on  to  the  back  of  the  chair.  One 
of  the  men  held  vinegar  for  him  to  inhale,  and  Prosper 
regained  consciousness  at  once;  but  his  haggard  "^yes  were 
so  destitute  of  life  and  intelligence,  that  the  senior  surgeon 
felt  his  pulse,  and  spoke  to  the  officer. 

*"  Captain,"  he  s^iJ,  "  it  is  impossible  to  examine  the 
man  just  now " 

'  "  Very  well.  Take  him  away,"  returned  the  captain, 
cutting  the  surgeon  short,  and  speaking  to  a  corporal 
who  stood  behind  the  junior's  chair, 

'  "  Confounded  scoundrel  !  "  the  man  muttered  ;  "  try 
at  least  to  hold  up  your  head  before  these  German 
beggars,  to  save  the  honour  of  the  Republic." 

'  Thus  adjured,  Prosper  Magnan  came  to  his  senses, 
rose,  and  went  forward  a  few  paces  ;  but  when  the  door 
opened,  when  he  felt  the  outer  air,  and  saw  the  people 
crowding  up,  all  his  strength  failed  him,  his  knees  bent 
under  him,  he  tottered. 

*  "  The  confounded  sawbones  deserves  to  be  put  an 
end  to  twice  over  ! — March,  can't  you  !  "  said  the  two 
men  on  either  side  of  him,  on  whom  he  leant. 

*  "  Oh,  the  coward  !  the  coward  !  Here  he  comes  ! 
here  he  comes  !  .  .  .  There  he  is  !  " 

'The  words  were  uttered  as  by  one  voice,  the 
clamorous  voice  of  the  mob  who  hemmed  him  in,  insult- 
ing and  reviling  him  at  every  step.  During  the  time  that 
it  took  to  go  from  the  inn  to  the  prison,  the  trampling 
feet  of  the  crowd  and  the  soldiers  who  guarded  him,  the 


The  Red  House  313 

luttered  talk  of  those  about  him,  the  sky  above,  the 
lorning  air,  the  streets  of  Andernach,  the  rippling 
lurniur  of  the  current  of  the  Rhine,  all  reached  him  as 
ull,  vague  impressions,  confused  and  dim,  like  all  his 
xperiences  since  his  awakening.  At  times  he  thought 
liat  he  had  ceased  to  exist,  so  he  told  me  afterwards. 

'I  myself  was  in  prison  just  then,' said  M.  Hermann, 
iterrupting  himself.     '  We  are  ail  enthusiasts  at  twenty. 

was  on   fire  to  defend  my  country,  and  commanded 

volunteer  troop  raised  in  and  about  Andernach.  A 
hort  time  previously,  I  managed  to  fell  in  one  night  with 

French  detachment  of  eight  hundred  men.  There 
vere  two  hundred  of  us  at  the  most  ;  my  scouts  had 
(etrayed  me.  I  was  thrown  into  the  prison  at  Ander- 
lach  while  they  debated  whether  or  no  to  have  me  shot 
)y  way  of  a  warning  to  the  country.  The  French, 
noreover,  talked  of  reprisals,  but  the  murder  for  which 
hey  had  a  mind  to  avenge  themselves  on  me  turned  out 

0  have  been  committed  outside  the  Electorate.  My 
"ather  had  obtained  a  reprieve  of  three  days,  to  make 
pplication  for  my  pardon  to  General  Augereau,  who 
jranted  it. 

'  So  I  saw  Prosper  Magnan  as  soon  as  he  came  into  the 
jrison  at  Andernach,  and  the  first  sight  of  him  filled  me 
ivith  the  deepest  pity  for  him.  Haggard,  exhausted,  and 
jlood-stained  though  he  was,  there  was  a  certain  frankness 
n  his  face  that  convinced  me  of  his  innocence,  and  made 

1  deep  impression  upon  me.  It  was  as  if  Germany  stood 
there  visibly  before  me — the  prisoner  with  the  long,  fair  hair 
and  blue  eyes,  was  for  my  imagination  the  very  personifi- 
cation of  the  prostrate  Fatherland, — this  was  no  murderer, 

ut  a  victim.  As  he  went  past  my  window,  a  sad,  bitter 
smile  lit  up  his  face  for  a  moment,  as  if  a  transitory 
gleam  of  sanity  crossed  a  disordered  brain.  Such  a  smile 
would  surely  not  be  seen  on  a  murderer's  lips.  When  I 
next  saw  the  turnkey,  I  asked  him  about  his  new 
prisoner. 


314  The  Red  House 

*  "  He  hasn't  said  a  word  since  he  went  into  his  cell. 
He  sits  there  with  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  sleeps  or 
thinks  about  his  trouble.  From  what  I  hear  the  French- 
men saying,  they  will  settle  his  case  to-morrow,  and  he 
will  be  shot  within  twenty-four  hours." 

'  That  evening  I  lingered  a  little  under  his  windows 
during  the  short  time  allowed  for  exercise  in  the  prison 
yard.  We  talked  together,  and  he  told  me  very  simply 
the  story  of  his  ill-luck,  giving  sufficiently  straightforward 
answers  to  my  different  questions.  After  that  conversa- 
tion I  no  longer  doubted  his  innocence.  I  asked  and 
obtained  the  favour  of  spending  a  few  hours  in  his  com- 
pany, and  saw  him  in  this  way  several  times.  The  poor 
boy  let  me  into  the  secret  of  his  thoughts  without 
reserve.  In  his  own  opinion,  he  was  at  once  innocent 
and  guilty.  He  remembered  the  hideous  temptation 
which  he  had  found  strength  to  resist,  and  was  afraid 
that  he  had  committed  the  murder  planned  while  he  was 
awake  in  an  access  of  somnambulism. 

'  *'  But  how  about  your  companion  ?  "  said  I. 

*"Oh,  Wilhelm  is  incapable  ! "  he  cried  vehemently. 

He  did  not  even  finish  the  sentence.  I  grasped  his  hand 
at  the  warm-hearted  outburst,  so  fraught  with  youth  and 
virtue. 

*  "  I  expect  he  was  frightened  when  he  woke,"  he  said  ; 
"  he  must  have  lost  his  presence  of  mind  and  fled " 

*  *'  Without  waking  you  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Why,  in  that 
case  your  defence  is  soon  made,  for  Walhenfer's  valise 
will  not  have  been  stolen." 

'  All  at  once  he  burst  into  tears. 

*  "  Oh,  yes,  yes  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  I  am  not  guilty.  I  can- 
not have  killed  him.  I  remember  the  dreams  I  had.  I  was 
at  school,  playing  at  prisoners-base.  I  could  not  have  cut 
his  throat  while  I  was  dreaming  of  running  about." 

'  But  in  spite  of  the  gleams  of  hope  that  quieted  his 
mind  somewhat  at  times,  he  still  felt  crushed  by  the 
weight  of  remorse.     There  was  no  blinking  the  fact  he 


ki 


The  Red  House  315 

ad  raised  his  arm  to  strike  the  blow.  He  condemned 
imself,  and  considered  that  he  was  morally  guilty  after 
ommitting  the  crime  in  imagination. 

*  "  And  yet,  I  am  not  a  bad  fellow,"  he  cried.  *'  Oh, 
oor  mother  !  Perhaps  just  now  she  is  happily  play- 
at  cards  with  her  friends  in  the  little  tapestried 
oom  at  home.  If  she  knew  that  I  had  so  much  as  raised 
tiy  hand  to  take  another  man's  life — Oh  !  it  would  kill 
ler  !  And  I  arn  in  prison,  and  accused  of  murder  !  If 
did  not  kill  the  man,  I  shall  certainly  be  the  death  of 
ny  mother  !  " 

He  shed  no  tears  as  he  spoke.  In  a  wild  fit  of 
renzy,  not  uncommon  among  Picards,  he  sprang  up,  and 
f  I  had  not  forcibly  restrained  him,  would  have  dashed 
lis  head  against  the  wall. 

"Wait  until  you  have  been  tried,"  I  said.    "You  will 

je  acquitted  ;  you  are  innocent.     And  your  mother " 

'  "  My  mother,"  he  cried  wildly  ;  "  my  mother  will 
lear  that  I  have  been  accused  of  murder,  that  is  the  main 
joint.  You  always  hear  things  like  that  in  little  places, 
md  my  poor  mother  will  die  of  grief.  Besides,  I  am  not 
nnocent.  Do  you  care  to  know  the  whole  truth  !  I 
feel  that  I  have  lost  the  virginity  of  my  conscience." 

*With  those  terrible  words,  he  sat  down,  folded  his 
arms  across  his  chest,  bowed  his  head,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
gloomily  on  the  floor.  Just  then  the  turnkey  came  to 
bid  me  return  to  my  cell  ;  but  loth  to  leave  my  com- 
panion when  his  discouragement  seemed  at  its  blackest, 
I  clasped  him  in  a  friendly  embrace.  "  Be  patient,"  I 
said,  "  perhaps  it  wi'l  all  come  right.  If  an  honest  man's 
opinion  can  silence  your  doubts,  I  tell  you  this — that  I 
esteem  you  and  love  you.  Accept  my  friendship,  and 
repose  on  my  heart,  if  you  cannot  feel  at  peace  with 
your  own." 

'On  the  following  day,  about  nine  o'clock,  a  corporal  and 
four  fusiliers  came  for  the  assistant  surgeon.  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  soldiers'  footsteps,  and  went  to  the  window; 


21 6  The  Red  House 

our  eyes  met  as  he  crossed  the  court.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  glance  fraught  with  so  many  thoughts  and 
forebodings,  nor  the  resignation  and  indescribably  sad 
and  melancholy  sweetness  in  his  expression.  In  that 
dumb  swift  transference  of  thought,  my  friend  conveyed 
his  testament  to  me  ;  he  left  his  lost  life  to  the  one  friend 
who  was  beside  him  at  the  last. 

*  That  night  must  have  been  very  hard  to  live  through, 
a  very  lonely  night  for  him  j  but  perhaps  the  pallor  that 
overspread  his  face  was  a  sign  of  a  newly  acquired 
stoicism,  based  on  a  new  view  of  himself.  Perhaps  he 
felt  purified  by  remorse,  and  thought  to  expiate  his  sin 
in  this  anguish  and  shame.  He  walked  with  a  firm  step; 
and  I  noticed  that  he  had  removed  the  accidental  stains 
of  blood  that  soiled  his  clothing  the  night  before. 

*  "  Unluckily  I  stained  my  hands  while  I  was  asleep  ; 
I  always  was  an  uneasy  sleeper,"  he  had  said,  a  dreadful 
despair  in  the  tones  of  his  voice. 

*  I  was  told  that  he  was  about  to  be  tried  by  a  court- 
martial.  The  division  was  to  go  forward  in  two  days' 
time,  and  the  commandant  of  the  demi-brigade  meant  to 
try  the  criminal  on  the  spot  before  leaving  Andernach. 

'  While  that  court-martial  was  sitting,  I  was  in  an 
agony  of  suspense.  It  was  noon  before  they  brought 
Prosper  Magnan  back  to  prison.  I  was  taking  my  pre- 
scribed exercise  when  he  came  ;  he  saw  me,  and  rushed 
into  my  arms. 

'  "  I  am  lost  !  "  he  said.  "  Lost  beyond  hope  !  Every 
one  here  must  look  on  me  as  a  murderer " 

Then  he  raised  his  head  proudly.  "  This  injustice 
has  completely  given  me  back  my  innocence,"  he  said. 
"  If  I  had  lived,  my  life  must  always  have  been  troubled, 
but  my  death  shall  be  without  reproach.  But  is  there 
anything  beyond  ?  " 

'  The  whole  eighteenth  century  spoke  in  that  sudden 
questioning.     He  was  absorbed  in  thought. 

'  "  But  what  did  you  tell  them  ?     What  did  they  ask 


The  Red  House  317 

ou  ?  "  I  cried.    "  Did  you  not  tell  them  the  simple  truth 
s  you  told  it  to  me  ?  " 

*  He  gazed  at  me  for  a  minute,  then  after  the  brief, 
readful  pause,  he  answered  with  a  feverish  readiness  of 
peech — 

'  *'  First  of  all  they  asked  me — '  Did  you  go  out  of  the 
nn  during  the  night?' — 'Yes,'  I  told  them. — 'How 
id  you  get  out  ?  ' — I  turned  red,  and  answered,  *  Through 
he  window.' — '  Then  you  must  have  opened  it  ?  ' — 
Yes,'  I  said. — '  You  set  about  it  very  cautiously  ;  the 
andlord  heard  nothing  !  ' — I  was  like  one  stupefied  all 
he  time.  The  boatmen  swore  that  they  had  seen 
ne  walking,  sometimes  towards  Andernach,  sometimes 
owards  the  forest.  I  went  to  and  fro  many  times, 
hey  said.  I  had  buried  the  gold  and  diamonds.  As  a 
natter  of  fact  the  valise  has  not  been  found.  Then, 
:he  whole  time,  I  myself  was  struggling  against  remorse. 
Whenever  I  opened  my  mouth  to  speak,  a  merciless 
/oice  seemed  to  cry,  '  Tou  meant  to  do  it  !  '  Everything 
was  against  me,  even  myself!  .  .  .  They  wanted  to 
enow  about  my  comrade,  and  I  completely  exonerated 
hbn.  Then  they  said,  '  One  of  you  four  must  be  guilty — 
you  or  your  comrade,  the  innkeeper  or  his  wife.  All  the 
doors  and  windows  were  shut  fast  this  morning  !  ' 
When  they  said  that,"  he  went  on,  "  I  had  no  voice,  no 
strength,  no  spirit  left  in  me.  I  was  more  sure  of  my 
friend  than  of  myself  ;  I  saw  very  well  that  they  thought 
us  both  equally  guilty  of  the  murder,  and  I  was  the 
clumsier  one  of  the  two.  I  tried  to  explain  the  thing  by 
somnambulism  ;  I  tried  to  clear  my  friend  j  then  I  got 
muddled,  and  it  was  all  over  with  me.  I  read  my 
sentence  in  the  judges'  eyes.  Incredulous  smiles  stole 
across  their  faces.     That  is  all.     The  suspense  is  over. 

I  am  to  be  shot  to-morrow I  do  not  think  of  myself 

now,"  he  said,  "but  of  my  poor  mother." 

*•  He  stopped  short  and  looked  up  to  heaven.     He  shed 
no  tears  ;  his  eyes  were  dry  and  contracted  with  pain. 


jiS  The  Red  House 

'Frédéric  !  .  .  . 

'Ah!  I  remember  now!  The  other  one  was  called 
Frédéric  .  .  .  Frédéric  !  Yes,  I  am  sure  that  was  the 
name,'  M.  Hermann  exclaimed  triumphantly. 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  my  fair  neighbour's  foot  ;  she 
made  a  sign  to  me,  and  looked  across  at  M.  Taillefer 
The  sometime  army-contractor's  hand  drooped  carelessly 
over  his  eyes,  but  through  the  fingers  we  thought  we 
saw  a  smouldering  blaze  in  them. 

'  Eh  ?'  she  said  in  my  ear,  '  and  now  suppose  that  his 
name  is  Frédéric  ?  ' 

I  gave  the  lady  a  side  glance  of  entreaty  to  be  silent. 
Hermann  went  on  with  his  tale. 

'  "  It  is  cowardly  of  Frédéric  to  leave  me  to  my  fate 
He  must  have  been  afraid.  Perhaps  he  is  hiding  in  the 
inn,  for  both  our  horses  were  there  in  the  yard  that 
morning. — What  an  inexplicable  mystery  it  is  !  "  he 
added,  after  a  pause.  *'  Somnambulism,  somnambulism  ! 
I  never  walked  in  my  sleep  but  once  in  my  life,  and  then 
I  was  not  six  years  old.  And  I  am  to  go  out  of  this,' 
he  went  on,  striking  his  foot  against  the  earth,  "and 
take  with  me  all  the  friendship  that  there  is  in  th( 
world  !  Must  I  die  twice  over,  doubting  the  friend 
ship  that  began  when  we  were  five  years  old,  and  lasted 
through  our  school  life  and  our  student  days  !  Where 
is  Frédéric  ?  " 

'  The  tears  filled  his  eyes.  We  cling  more  closely  to  a 
sentiment  than  to  our  life,  it  seems  ! 

*  "  Let  us  go  in  again,"  he  said  j  "  I  would  rather  be  in 
my  cell.  I  don't  mean  them  to  see  me  crying.  I  shall 
go  bravely  to  my  death,  but  I  cannot  play  the  hero  in 
season  and  out  of  season,  and  I  confess  that  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  my  life,  my  fair  life,  and  my  youth.  I  did  not 
sleep  last  night  ;  I  remembered  places  about  my  hom 
when  I  was  a  child  ;  I  saw  myself  running  about  in  thi 
meadows,  perhaps  it  was  the  memories  of  those  fields  that 
led  to  my  ruin. — I  had  a  future  before  me  "  (he  inter- 


The  Red  House  319 

ipted  himself).  "  A  dozen  men,  a  sub-lieutenant  who 
'ill  cry,  '  Ready  !  present  I  fire  !  '  a  roll  of  drums, 
id    disgrace  !  that   is    my    future    now  !      Ah  !    there 

a  God,  there  is  a  God,  or  all  this  would  be  too  non- 
msical." 

'  Then  he  grasped  my  arm,  put  his  arms  about  me, 
id  held  me  tightly  to  him. 

*  "  Ah  !  you  are  the  last  human  soul  to  whom  I  can 
our  out  my  soul.  Tou  will  be  free  again  !  You  will  see 
our  mother  !  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  rich  or 
oor,  but  no  matter  for  that,  you  are  all  the  world 
jr  me.  .  .  .  They  cannot  keep  the  fighting  up  for 
ver.  Well  and  good  then,  when  they  make  peace, 
o  to  Beauvais.  If  my  mother  survives  the  disastrous 
ews  of  my  death,  you  will  find  her  out  and  tell  her 
He  was  innocent,'  to  comfort  her.  "  She  will  believe 
ou,"  he  went  on.  "  I  shall  write  to  her  as  well,  but 
ou  will  carry  my  last  look  to  her  ;  you  shall  tell  her  how 
hat  you  were  the  last  friend  whom  I  embraced  before  I 
ied.  Ah  !  how  she  will  love  you,  my  poor  mother,  you 
i^ho  have  stood  my  friend  at  the  last  !     He  was  silent  for 

moment  or  two,  the  burden  of  his  memories  seemed 
00  heavy  for  him  to  bear.  "  Here  they  are  all  strangers 
o  me,"  he  said,  "  the  other  surgeons  and  the  men,  and 
hey  all  shrink  from  me  in  horror.  But  for  you,  my 
nnocence  must  remain  a  secret  between  me  and 
Jeaven." 

*  I  vowed  to  fulfil  his  last  wishes  as  a  sacred  charge, 
^e  felt  that  my  heart  went  out  to  him,  and  was  touched 

y  my  words.  A  little  later  the  soldiers  came  back  to 
ake  him  before  the  court-martial  again.  He  was 
loomed. 

'■  i  know  nothing  of  the  formalities  or  circumstances 
:hat  attend  a  sentence  of  this  kind  ;  I  do  not  know 
A^hether  there  is  any  appeal,  nor  whether  the  young 
urgeon's  defence  was  made  according  to  rule  and 
jrecedent,  but  he  prepared  to  go  to  his  death  early  on 


320  The  Red  House 

the  morrow,  and   spent    that   night    in   writing    to  his 
mother. 

*  "  We  shall  both  be  set  free  to-day,"  he  said,  smiling 
when  I  went  the  next  day  to  see  him.  "  The  genera 
has  signed  your  pardon,  I  hear." 

'I  said  nothing,  and  gazed  at  him  to  engrave  hii 
features  on  my  memory. 

'  A  look  of  loathing  crossed  his  face,  and  he  said, 
have  been  a  miserable  coward  !  All  night  long  I  hav( 
been  praying  the  very  walls  for  mercy,"  and  he  looke 
round  his  cell.  "  Yes,  yes,"  he  went  on,  "  I  howle( 
with  despair,  I  rebelled  against  this,  I  have  been  througl 
the  most  fearful  inward  conflict.  ...  I  was  alone  !  . 
Now  I  am  thinking  of  what  others  will  say  of  me— 
Courage  is  like  a  garment  that  we  put  on.  I  must  g 
decently  to  my  death.  .  .  .  And  so  .  .  ."  * 


II. 

A    DOUBLE    RETRIBUTION 

*  Oh  !  do  not  tell  us  any  more  !  '  cried  the  girl  wh 
had  asked  for  the  story,  cutting  short  the  Nurembergei 
'  I  want  to  live  in  suspense,  and  to  believe  that  he  w< 
saved.     If  I  were  to  know  to-night  that  they  shot  him, 
should  not  sleep.     You  must  tell  me  the  rest  to-morrow 

We  rose.  M.  Hermann  offered  his  arm  to  my  fa 
neighbour,  who  asked  as  she  took  it,  'They  shot  hin 
did  they  not  ?  ' 

■  Yes.     I  was  there.* 

*  What,  Monsieur,  you  could ' 

'  He  wished  it,  Madame,     it  is  something  very  ghasti 

to  attend  the  funeral  of  a  living  man,  your  own  frien 
who  is  not  guilty  of  the  crime  laid  to  his  charge.  Tf 
poor  young  fellow  never  took  his  eyes  ofF    me.      h 


Jl 


The  Red  House  321 

;emed  to  have  no  life  but  mine  left.     "  He  wished,"  he 
lid,  "  that  I  should  bear  his  last  sigh  to  his  mother."  ' 

*  Well,  and  did  you  see  her  ?  ' 

*  After  the  Peace  of  Amiens  I  went  to  France  to  take 
le  glad  tidings  "  He  was  innocent  !  "  That  pilgrimage 
^as  like  a  sacred  duty  laid  upon  me.  But  Mme. 
lagnan  was  dead,  I  found  ;  she  had  died  of  consumption. 

burned  the  letter  I  had  brought  for  her,  not  without 
eep  emotion.  Perhaps  you  will  laugh  at  my  German 
igh-flown  sentimentality  ;  but  for  me  there  was  a  tragedy 
lost  sublimely  sad  in  the  eternal  silence  which  was 
bout  to  swallow  up  those  farewells  uttered  in  vain  from 
ne  grave  to  another  grave,  and  heard  by  none,  like  the 
ry  of  some  traveller  in  the  desert  surprised  by  a  beast 
fprey.' 

Here  I  broke  in  with  a  '  How  if  some  one  were  to  bring 
ou  face  to  face  with  one  of  the  men  in  this  drawing- 
oom,  and  say,  "  There  is  the  murderer  !  "  would  not 
hat  be  another  tragedy  ?     And  what  would  you  do  ?  ' 

M.  Hermann  took  up  his  hat  and  went. 

*  You  are  acting  like  a  young  man,  and  very  thought- 
essly,'  said  the  lady.  *  Just  look  at  Taillefer  ;  there  he 
its  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  Mademoiselle  Fanny  is 
landing  him  a  cup  of  coffee  ;  he  is  smiling.     How  could 

murderer  display  such  quiet  self-possession  as  that, 
fter  a  story  that  must  have  been  torture  to  him.  He 
ooks  quite  patriarchal,  does  he  not  ?  ' 

Yes  ;  but  just  ask  him  if  he  has  been  with  the  army 
n  Germany  !  '  I  exclaimed. 

Why  not?'  and  with  the  audacity  rarelv  lacking  in 
vomankind  when  occasion  tempts,  or  curiosity  gets  the 
jetterof  her,  my  fair  neighbour  went  across  to  the  army- 
ontractor. 

'  Have  you  been  in  Germany,  M.  Taillefer  ?  '  quoth 
he. 

Taillefer  all  but  dropped  his  saucer. 

'  I,  Madame  ? — No,  never.' 

X 


322  The  Red  House 

*  Why,  what  is  that  you  are  saying,  Taillefer  ?  '  pro- 
tested the  banker,  chiming  in.  *  You  were  in  the 
Wagram  campaign,  were  you  not — on  the  victualling 
establishment  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes  !  '  answered  Taillefer  ;  *  I  was  there,  that 
once,' 

'  You  are  wrong  about  him  ;  he  is  a  good  sort  of 
man,'  decided  the  lady  when  she  came  back  to  me. 

*  Very  well,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  before  this  evening 
is  over  I  will  drive  the  murderer  out  of  the  mire  in 
which  he  is  hiding.' 

There  is  a  phenomenon  of  consciousness  that  takes 
place  daily  beneath  our  eyes,  so  commonplace  that  no 
one  notices  it,  and  yet  there  are  astounding  depths 
beneath  it.  Two  men  meet  in  a  drawing-room  who 
have  some  cause  to  disdain  or  to  hate  each  other  ;  per- 
haps one  of  them  knows  something  which  is  not  to  the 
credit  of  the  other  ;  perhaps  it  is  a  condition  of  things 
that  is  kept  a  secret  ;  perhaps  one  of  them  is  meditating 
a  revenge  ;  but  both  of  them  are  conscious  of  the  gulf 
that  divides  them,  or  that  ought  to  divide  them.  Before 
they  know  it,  they  are  watching  each  other  and  absorbed 
in  each  other  ;  some  subtle  emanation  of  their  thought 
seems  to  distil  from  every  look  and  gesture  ;  they  have 
a  magnetic  influence.  Nor  can  I  tell  which  has  the 
more  power  of  attraction — revenge  or  crime,  hatred 
or  contempt.  Like  some  priest  who  cannot  consecrate 
the  house  where  an  evil  spirit  abides,  the  two  are 
ill  at  ease  and  suspicious  ;  one  of  them,  it  is  hard  to 
say  which,  is  polite,  and  the  other  sullen  ;  one  of  them 
turns  pale  or  red,  and  the  other  trembles,  and  it  often 
happens  that  the  avenger  is  quite  as  cowardly  as  the 
victim.  For  very  few  of  us  have  the  nerve  to  cause 
pain,  even  if  it  is  necessary  pain,  and  many  a  man 
passes  over  a  matter  or  forgives  from  sheer  hatred  of  fuss 
or  dread  of  making  a  tragical  scene. 


The  Red  House  323 

With  this  inter-susceptibility  of  minds,  and  apprehen- 
veness  of  thought  and  feeling,  there  began  a  mys- 
:rious  struggle  between  the  army-contractor  and  me. 
^ver  since  my  interruption  of  M.  Hermann's  story  he 
ad  shunned  my  eyes.  Perhaps  in  like  manner  he  looked 
one  of  the  party  in  the  face.  He  was  chatting  now 
i^ith  the  inexperienced  Fanny,  the  banker's  daughter  ; 
irobably,  like  all  criminals,  he  felt  a  longing  to  take 
belter  with  innocence,  as  if  the  mere  proximity  of 
nnocence  might  bring  him  peace  for  a  little.  But 
hough  I  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  I  still 
istened  to  all  that  he  said  ;  my  direct  gaze  fascinated 
I.  When  he  thought  he  could  glance  at  me  in  turn, 
mnoticed,  our  eyes  met,  and  his  eyelids  fell  directly. 
Paillefer  found  this  torture  intolerable,  and  hastened  to 
)ut  a  stop  to  it  by  betaking  himself  to  a  card-table.  I 
)acked  his  opponent,  hoping  to  lose  my  money.  It  fell 
>ut  as  I  had  wished.  The  other  player  left  the  table,  I 
ut  in,  and  the  guilty  man  and  I  were  now  face  to 
ace. 

'  Monsieur,'  I  said,  as  he  dealt  the  cards,  'will  you  be 
o  good  as  to  begin  a  fresh  score  ?  '  He  swept  his 
counters  from  right  to  left  somewhat  hastily.  The  lady, 
ny  neighbour  at  dinner,  passed  by  ;  I  gave  her  a  sig- 
lificant  glance. 

'  M.  Frédéric  Taillefer,'  I  asked,  addressing  my 
pponent,  *  are  you  related  to  a  family  in  Beauvais  with 
ivhom  I  am  well  acquainted  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  sir.'  He  let  the  cards  fall,  turned  pale,  hid  his 
"ace  in  his  hands,  begged  one  of  his  backers  to  finish  the 

ame  for  him,  and  rose. 

*  It  is  too  warm  here,'  he  gasped  ;  '  I  am  afraid  .  .  .' 
He   did  not   finish   his    sentence.     An   expression  of 

horrible  anguish  suddenly  crossed  his  face,  and  he  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room  ;  the  master  of  the  house  following 
him  with  what  appeared  to  be  keen  anxiety.  My 
neighbour  and  I  looked  at  each  other,  but  her  face  was 


324  The  Red  House 

overcast  by  indescribable  sadness  ;  there  was  a  tinge 
of  bitterness  in  it. 

'  Is  your  behaviour  very  merciful  ?  *  she  asked,  as  I 
rose  from  the  card-table,  where  I  had  been  playing  and 
losing.  She  drew  me  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window 
as  she  spoke.  *  Would  you  be  willing  to  accept  the 
power  of  reading  all  hearts  if  you  could  have  it  ?  Why 
interfere  with  man's  justice  or  God's  ?  We  may 
escape  the  one  ;  we  shall  never  escape  the  other.  Is 
the  prerogative  of  a  President  of  a  Court  of  Assize  so 
enviable  ?  And  you  have  all  but  done  the  executioner's 
office  as  well ' 

'  After  sharing  and  stimulating  my  curiosity,'  I  said, 
'  you  are  lecturing  me  !  ' 

'  You  have  made  me  think,'  she  answered. 

'So  it  is  to  be  peace  to  scoundrels,  and  woe  to  the 
unfortunate,  is  it  ?  Let  us  down  on  our  knees  and 
worship  gold  !  But  shall  we  change  the  subject  ?  '  I 
said  with  a  laugh.  *  Please  look  at  the  young  lady  who 
is  just  coming  into  the  room.' 

*  Well  ?  ' 

*  I  met  her  three  days  ago  at  a  ball  at  the  Neapolitan 
embassy,  and  fell  desperately  in  love.  For  pity's  sake, 
tell  me  who  she  is.     No  one  could  tell  me ' 

*  That  is  Mile.  Victorine  Taillefer  !  ' 
Everything  swam  before  my  eyes  ;  I  could  scarcely 

hear  the  tones  of  the  speaker's  voice. 

*  Her  stepmother  brought  her  home  only  a  while  ago 
from  the  convent  where  she  has  been  finishing  her  edu- 
cation somewhat  late.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  her  father 
would  not  recognise  her.  She  comes  here  to-day  for  the 
first  time.     She  is  very  handsome — and  very  rich  !  ' 

A  sardonic  smile  went  with  the  words.  Just  as  she 
spoke,  we  heard  loud  cries  that  seemed  to  come  from  an 
adjoining  room  ;  stifled  though  they  were,  they  echoed 
faintly  through  the  garden. 

'  Is  not   that  M.  Taillefer's  voice  ?  '    I  asked.     Wd 


The  Red  House  325 

oth  listened  intently  to  the  sounds,  and  fearful  groans 
ached  our  ears.  Just  then  our  hostess  hurried  tovtrards 
s  and  closed  the  window. 

'Let  us   avoid   scenes,'   she   said   to   us.     'If  Mile. 

aillefer  were  to  hear  her  father,  it  would  be  quite 
nough  to  send  her  into  a  fit  of  hysterics.' 

The  banker  came  back  to  the  drawing-room,  looked 
or  Victorine,  and   spoke  a  few  low  words  in  her  ear. 

I  The  girl  sprang  at  once  towards  the  door  with  an 
:xclamation,  and  vanished.  This  produced  a  great  sen- 
ation.  The  card-parties  broke  up  j  every  one  asked  his 
leighbour  what  had  happened.  The  buzz  of  talk  grew 
ouder,  and  groups  were  formed. 
'  Has  M.  Taillefer ?  '  I  began. 
'  Killed  himself  ?  '  put  in  my  sarcastic  friend.  '  You 
ivould  wear  mourning  for  him  with  a  light  heart,  I 
can  see.' 

'  But  what  can  have  happened  to  him  ?  ' 
'  Poor   man  !  '    (it  was    the    lady  of  the    house   who 
spoke)  '  he  suffers  from  a  complaint — I  cannot  recollect 
the  name  of  it,  though  M.  Brousson  has  told  me  about 
it  often  enough — and  he  has  just  had  a  seizure.' 

*  What  kind  of  complaint  is  it  ?  '  asked  an  examining 
magistrate  suddenly. 

'Oh,  it  is  something  dreadful,*  she  answered}  'and 
the  doctors  can  do  nothing  for  him.  The  agony  must 
be  terrible.  Taillefer  had  a  seizure,  I  remember,  once, 
poor  man,  when  he  was  staying  with  us  in  the 
country  ;  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  a  neighbour's  house  so 
as  not  to  hear  him  j  his  shrieks  are  fearful  ;  he  tries  to 
kill  himself;  his  daughter  had  to  have  him  put  into  a 
strait  waistcoat  and  tied  down  to  his  bed.  Poor  man  ! 
he  says  there  are  live  creatures  in  his  head  gnawing  his 
brain  ;  it  is  a  horrible,  sawing,  shooting  pain  that  throbs 
through  every  nerve.  He  suffers  so  fearfully  with  his 
head  that  he  did  not  feel  the  blisters  that  they  used  to 
apply  at  one  time  to  draw  the  inflammation  j  but  M. 


326  The  Red  House 

Brousson,  his  present  doctor,  forbade  this  ;  he  says  that 
it  is  nervous  inflammation,  and  puts  leeches  on  the 
throat,  and  applies  laudanum  to  the  head  ;  and,  indeed, 
since  they  began  this  treatment  the  attacks  have  been 
less  frequent  j  he  seldom  has  them  oftener  than  once 
a  year,  in  the  late  autumn.  When  he  gets  over  one 
of  these  seizures,  Taillefer  always  says  that  he  would 
rather  be  broken  on  the  wheel  than  endure  such  agony 
again.' 

'  That  looks  as  if  he  suffered  considerably  !  *  said  a 
stockbroker,  the  wit  of  the  party. 

'  Oh  !  last  year  he  very  nearly  died,'  the  lady  went 
on.  *  He  went  alone  to  his  country-house  on  some 
urgent  business  ;  there  was  no  one  at  hand  perhaps,  for 
he  lay  stiff  and  stark,  like  one  dead,  for  twenty-two 
hours.  They  only  saved  his  life  by  a  scalding  hot 
bath.' 

*  Then  is  it  some  kind  of  tetanus  ?  '  asked  the  stock- 
broker. 

'  I  do  not  know,'  returned  she.  *  He  has  had  the 
complaint  nearly  thirty  years  ;  it  began  while  he  was 
with  the  army.  He  says  that  he  had  a  fall  on  a  boat, 
and  a  splinter  got  into  his  head,  but  Brousson  hopes  to 
cure  him.  People  say  that  in  England  they  have  found 
out  a  way  of  treating  it  with  prussic  acid,  and  that  you 
run  no  risks ' 

A  shrill  cry,  louder  than  any  of  the  preceding  ones, 
rang  through  the  house.  The  blood  ran  cold  in  our 
veins. 

*  There  !  '  the  banker's  wife  went  on,  '  that  is  just 
what  I  was  expecting  every  moment.  It  makes  me 
start  on  my  chair  and  creep  through  every  nerve.  But — 
it  is  an  extraordinary  thing  ! — poor  Taillefer,  suffering 
such  unspeakable  pain  as  he  does,  never  runs  any  risk  of 
his  life  !  He  eats  and  drinks  as  usual  whenever  he  has 
a  little  respite  from  that  ghastly  torture.  .  .  .  Nature 
has  such  strange  freaks.     Some  German  doctor  once  told 


The  Red  House  327 

him  that  it  was  a  kind  of  gout  in  the  head  ;  and  Brousson's 
opinion  was  pretty  much  the  same.' 

I  left  the  little  group  about  our  hostess  and  went  out 
with  Mile.  Taillefer.  A  servant  had  come  for  her.  She 
was  crying. 

'  Oh^  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu  !  '  she  sobbed  ;  '  how  can  my 
father  have  offended  heaven  to  deserve  such  suffering  as 
this  ?   ...  So  kind  as  he  is.' 

I  went  downstairs  with  her,  and  saw  her  into  the 
carriage  ;  her  father  was  lying  doubled  up  inside  it. 
Mile.  Taillefer  tried  to  smother  the  sound  of  her  father's 
moaning  by  covering  his  mouth  with  a  handkerchief. 
Unluckily,  he  saw  me,  and  his  drawn  face  seemed  further 
distorted,  a  scream  of  agony  rent  the  air,  he  gave  me  a 
dreadful  look,  and  the  carriage  started. 

That  dinner  party  and  the  evening  that  followed  it 
was  to  exercise  a  painful  influence  on  my  life  and  on  my 
views.  Honour  and  my  own  scruples  forbade  me  to 
connect  myself  with  a  murderer,  no  matter  how  good 
a  husband  and  father  he  might  be,  and  so  I  must  needs 
fall  in  love  with  Mile.  Taillefer.  It  was  well-nigh 
incredible  how  often  chance  drew  me  to  visit  at  houses 
where  I  knew  I  might  meet  Victorine.  Again  and 
again,  when  I  had  pledged  myself  to  renounce  her 
society,  the  evening  would  find  me  hovering  about  her. 
The  pleasures  of  this  life  were  immense.  It  gave  the 
colour  of  an  illicit  passion  to  this  unforbidden  love,  and 
a  chimerical  remorse  filled  up  the  measure  of  my  bliss. 
I  scorned  myself  when  I  greeted  Taillefer,  if  by  accident 
he  was  with  his  daughter  j  but,  after  all,  I  bowed  to 
him. 

Unluckily,  in  fact,  Victorine,  being  something  more 
than  a  pretty  girl,  was  well  read,  charming,  and  gifted 
in  no  small  degree,  without  being  in  the  least  a  blue 
stocking,  without  the  slightest  taint  of  affectation. 
There  is  a  certain  reserve  in  her  hght  talk,  and  a  pensive 


328  The  Red  House 

graciousness  about  her  that  no  one  could  resist.  She 
liked  me,  or,  at  any  rate,  she  allowed  me  to  think  so  j 
there  was  a  certain  smile  that  she  kept  for  me  ;  for  me  the 
tones  of  her  voice  grew  sweeter  still.  Oh  !  she  cared 
about  me,  but  she  worshipped  her  father  ;  she  would 
praise  his  kindness  to  me,  his  gentleness,  his  various 
perfections,  and  all  her  praises  were  like  so  many  daggers 
thrust  into  my  heart. 

At  length  I  all  but  became  an  accessory  after  the 
fact,  an  accomplice  in  the  crime  which  had  laid  the 
foundation  of  the  wealth  of  the  Taillefers.  I  was  fain 
to  ask  for  Victorine's  hand.  I  fled.  I  travelled  abroad. 
I  went  to  Germany  and  to  Andernach.  But  I  came 
back  again,  and  Victorine  was  looking  thinner  and  paler 
than  her  wont.  If  she  had  been  well  and  in  good  spirits, 
I  should  have  been  safe  ;  but  now  the  old  feeling  for  her 
was  rekindled  with  extraordinary  violence. 

Fearing  lest  my  scruples  were  degenerating  into 
monomania,  I  resolved  to  convene  a  Sanhedrim  of 
consciences  that  should  not  have  been  tampered  with, 
and  so  to  obtain  some  light  on  this  problem  of  the 
higher  morality  and  philosophy.  The  question  had  only 
become  more  complex  since  my  return. 

So  the  day  before  yesterday  I  assembled  those  among 
my  friends  whom  I  looked  upon  as  notably  honest, 
scrupulous,  and  honourable.  I  asked  two  Englishmen, 
a  secretary  to  the  Embassy  and  a  Puritan  ;  a  retired 
Minister,  in  the  character  of  matured  worldly  wisdom  ; 
a  few  young  men  still  under  the  illusions  of  inexperiences  ; 
a  priest,  an  elderly  man  ;  my  old  guardian,  a  simple- 
hearted  being,  who  gave  me  the  best  account  of  his 
management  of  my  property  that  ever  trustee  has  been 
known  to  give  in  the  annals  of  the  Palais  ;  an  advocate,  a 
notary,  and  a  judge, — in  short,  all  social  opinions  were 
represented,  and  all  practical  wisdom.  We  had  begun  by 
a  good  dinner,  good  talk,  and  a  deal  of  mirth  ;  and  over 
the  dessert  I  told  my  story  plainly  and  simply  (suppress- 


The  Red  House  329 

!ng  the  name  of  my  lady-love),  and  asked  for  sound 
counsel. 

*  Give  me  your  advice,'  I  said  to  my  friends  as  I  came 
to  an  end.  *Go  thoroughly  into  the  question  as  if  it 
svere  a  point  of  law.  I  will  have  an  urn  and  billiard- 
balls  brought  round,  and  you  shall  vote  for  or  against  my 
marriage,  the  secrecy  of  the  ballot  shall  be  scrupulously 
observed.' 

Deep  silence  prevailed  all  at  once.  Then  the  notary 
declined  to  act. 

'  There  is  a  contract  to  draw  up,'  he  alleged. 

Wine  had  had  a  quietening  effect  on  my  guardian  j 
indeed,  it  clearly  behoved  me  to  find  a  guardian  for  him 
if  he  was  to  reach  his  home  in  safety. 

'  I  see  how  it  is  !  '  I  said  to  myself.  *  A  man  who 
does  not  give  me  an  opinion  is  telling  me  pretty  forcibly 
what  I  ought  to  do.' 

There  was  a  general  movement  round  the  table.  A 
landowner,  who  had  subscribed  to  a  fund  for  putting  a 
headstone  to  General  Foy's  grave  and  providing  for  his 
family,  exclaimed — 

'  "  Even,  as  virtue,  crime  hath  its  degrees."  ' 

'  The  babbler,'  said  the  Minister  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
nudged  my  elbow. 

'Where  is  the  difficulty?'  asked  a  duke,  whose 
property  consisted  of  lands  confiscated  from  Protestants 
after  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes. 

The  advocate  rose  to  his  feet. 

'  In  law,'  opined  the  mouthpiece  of  Justice,  *  the  case 
before  us  presents  no  difficulty  whatever.  Monsieur  le 
Duc  is  right  !  Is  there  not  a  statute  of  limitations  ? 
Begin  to  inquire  into  the  origins  of  a  fortune,  and  where 
should  we  all  of  us  be  ?  This  is  a  matter  of  conscience, 
and  not  of  law.  If  you  must  drag  the  case  before  some 
tribunal,  the  confessional  is  the  proper  place  in  which  to 
hear  it.' 

And  the  Code  incarnate,  having  said  his  say,  sat  down 


330  The  Red  House 

and  drank  a  glass  of  champagne.  The  man  intrusted 
with  the  interpretation  of  the  Gospel,  the  good  priest, 
spoke  next. 

'  God  has  made  us  weak,'  he  said  with  decision.  *  If 
you  love  the  criminal's  heiress,  marry  her  ;  but  content 
yourself  with  her  mother's  property,  and  give  her  father's 
money  to  the  poor.' 

'  Why,  in  all  likelihood  the  father  only  made  a  great 
match  because  he  had  made  money  first,'  cried  one  of 
the  pitiless  quibblers  that  you  meet  with  everywhere. 
*  And  it  is  just  the  same  with  every  little  bit  of  good 
fortune — it  all  came  of  his  crime  !  ' 

'  The  fact  that  the  matter  can  be  discussed  is  enough 
to  decide  it  !  There  are  some  things  which  a  man  can- 
not weigh  and  ponder,'  cried  my  guardian,  thinking  to 
enlighten  the  assembly  by  this  piece  of  drunken  gravity. 

'  True  !  '  said  the  secretary  to  the  Embassy. 

*  True  !  '  exclaimed  the  priest,  each  meaning  quite 
differently. 

A  doctrinaire,  who  escaped  being  elected  by  a  bare 
hundred  and  fifty  votes  out  of  a  hundred  and  fifty-five, 
rose  next. 

'Gentlemen,'  said  he,  *this  phenomenal  manifestation 
of  the  intellectual  nature  is  one  of  the  most  strongly 
marked  instances  of  an  exception  to  the  normal  condition 
of  things,  the  rules  which  society  obeys.  The  decision, 
therefore,  on  an  abnormal  case  should  be  an  extempor- 
aneous effort  of  the  conscience,  a  sudden  conception,  a 
delicate  discrimination  of  the  inner  consciousness,  not 
unlike  the  flashes  of  insight  that  constitute  perception 
in  matters  of  taste.  .  .  .  Let  us  put  it  to  the  vote.' 

*  Yes,  let  us  put  it  to  the  vote,'  cried  the  rest  of  the 
party. 

Each  was  provided  with  two  billiard-balls — one  white, 
the  other  red.  White,  the  colour  of  virginity,  was  to 
proscribe  marriage  ;  red  to  count  in  favour  of  it.  My 
scruples  prevented  me  from  voting.     My  friends  being 


The  Red  House  331 

eventeen  in  number,  nine  made  a  decisive  majority. 
Ve  grew  excited  and  curious  as  each  dropped  his  ball 
nto  the  narrow-mouthed  wicker  basket,  which  holds 
he  numbered  balls  when  players  draw  for  their  places  at 
)ool,  for  there  was  a  certain  novelty  in  this  process  of 
noting  by  ballot  on  a  nice  point  of  conduct.  When  the 
)asket  was  turned  out  there  were  nine  white  balls. 
To  me  this  did  not  come  as  a  surprise  ;  but  it  occurred 
me  to  count  up  the  young  men  of  my  own  age 
imong  this  Court  of  Appeal.  There  were  exactly  nine  of 
:hese  casuists  ;  one  thought  had  been  in  all  their  minds. 
'  Aha  !  '  I  said  to  myself,  '  there  was  a  unanimous 
eeling  against  the  marriage  in  their  minds,  and  a  no 
ess  unanimous  verdict  in  favour  of  it  among  the  rest  ! 
Here  is  a  fix,  and  how  am  I  to  get  out  of  it  ?  ' 

*  Where  does  the  father-in-law  live  ?  '  one  of  my  school- 
"ellows,  less  crafty  than  the  rest,  asked  carelessly. 

There  is  no  longer  a  father-in-law  in  the  case  !  '  I 
exclaimed.  *  A  while  ago  my  conscience  spoke  suffi- 
ciently plainly  to  make  your  verdict  superfluous.  And  if 
t  speaks  more  uncertainly  to-day,  here  are  the  induce- 
ments that  led  me  to  waver.  Here  is  the  tempter — this 
letter  that  I  received  two  months  ago  ;  and  1  drew  a  card 
from  my  pocket-book  and  held  it  up. 

*  Tou  are    requested  to  he  present^  so   it   ran,   *  at  the 
funeral  and  burial  service  of 

M.  Jean-Frédéric  Taillefer 

of  the  firm  of  Taillefer  and  Company^  sometime  contracter 
of  provisions  to  the  Ariny^  late  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  and  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Spur^  Captain  of  the 
First  Company  of  Grenadiers  of  the  National  Guard^  Paris: 
ivho  died  on  May  ist^  at  his  house  in  the  Rue  foubert. 
The  interment  will  take  place^  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

*  On  behalf  of  y  and  so  forth. 


23^  The  Red  House 

*  What  am  I  to  do  now  ?  '  I  continued.  *  I  will  just  put 
the  question  roughly  before  you.  There  is  unquestion- 
ably a  pool  of  blood  on  Mile.  Taillefer's  estates.  Her 
father's  property  is  one  vast  Aceldama.  .  .  .  Granted  ! 
But,  then,  Prosper  Magnan  has  no  representatives,  and  I 
could  not  find  any  traces  of  the  family  of  the  pin-maker 
who  was  murdered  that  night  at  Andernach.  To  whom 
should  the  fortune  be  returned  ?  And  ought  it  all  to  be 
returned  ?  Have  I  any  right  to  betray  a  secret  discovered 
by  accident,  to  add  a  severed  human  head  to  an  innocent 
girl's  marriage  portion,  to  give  her  ugly  dreams,  to  destroy 
her  pleasant  illusions,  to  kill  the  father  she  loved  a  second 
time,  by  telling  her  that  there  is  a  dark  stain  on  all  her 
wealth  ? 

*  I  have  borrowed  a  Dictionary  of  Cases  of  Conscience  from 
an  old  ecclesiastic,  and  found  therein  no  solution  whatever 
of  my  doubts.  Can  you  make  a  religious  foundation  for 
the  souls  of  Prosper  Magnan  and  Walhenfer  and  Taillefer 
now  midway  through  this  nineteenth  century  of  ours  ? 
And  as  for  endowing  a  charitable  institution  or  awarding 
periodic  prizes  to  virtue — most  of  our  charitable  institu- 
tions appear  to  me  to  be  harbouring  scoundrels,  and  the 
prize  of  virtue  would  fell  to  the  greatest  rogues. 

*  And  not  only  so.  Would  these  investments,  more  or 
less  gratifying  to  vanity,  be  any  reparation  ?  And  is  it 
my  place  to  make  any?  Then  I  am  in  love,  passionately 
in  love.  My  love  has  come  to  be  my  life.  If^  with- 
out any  apparent  reason,  I  propose  that  a  young  girl, 
accustomed  to  splendour  and  elegance,  and  a  life  abundant 
in  all  the  luxuries  art  can  devise,  a  girl  who  indolently 
enjoys  Rossini's  music  at  the  Bouffons, — if  to  her  I  should 
propose  that  she  should  rob  herself  of  fifteen  hundred 
thousand  francs  for  the  benefit  of  aged  imbeciles  and 
problematical  scrofula  patients,  she  would  laugh  and  turn 
her  back  upon  me,  or  her  confidante  would  take  me  for  a 
wag  who  makes  jokes  in  poor  taste.  If  in  an  ecstasy  of 
love  I  extol  the  charms  of  humble  life  in  a  cottage  by 


The  Red  House  ^33 

le  Loire,  if  I  ask  her  to  give  up,  for  my  sake,  her  life  in 
is,  it  would  be  a  virtuous  lie  to  begin  with,  and 
robably  would  end  in  a  sad  experience  for  me,  for  I 
lould  lose  the  girl's  heart  ;  she  is  passionately  fond  of 
ancing  and  of  pretty  dresses,  and,  for  the  time  being,  of 
ie.  Enter  some  smart  stripling  of  an  officer  with  a 
icely  curled  moustache,  who  shall  play  the  piano,  rave 
bout  Byron,  and  mount  a  horse  gracefully,  and  I  shall 
le  supplanted.  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Gentlemen,  advise 
ne,  for  pity's  sake  ?  ' 
Then  one  of  the  party,  who  hitherto  had  not  breathed 
word,  the  Englishman  with  a  Puritanical  cast  of  face, 
lot  unlike  the  father  of  Jeanie  Deans,  shrugged  his 
ihoulders. 

*  Idiot  that  you  were,'  he  said.     '  What  made  you  ask 
lim  if  he  came  from  Beauvais  ?  ' 

Paris,  May  iSgi. 


THE  ELIXIR  OF   LIFE 


To  THE  Reader 

At  the  very  outset  of  the  writer's  literary  career,  a  friend, 
long  since  dead,  gave  him  the  subject  of  this  Study.  Later 
on  he  found  the  same  story  in  a  collection  published  about 
the  beginning  of  the  present  century.  To  the  best  of  his 
belief,  it  is  some  stray  fancy  of  the  brain  of  Hoffmann  of 
Berlin  ;  probably  it  appeared  in  some  German  almanack,  and 
was  omitted  in  the  published  editions  of  his  collected  works. 
The  Comédie  Humaine  is  sufficiently  rich  in  original  creations 
for  the  author  to  own  to  this  innocent  piece  of  plagiarism  ; 
when,  like  the  worthy  La  Fontaine,  he  has  told  unwittingly, 
and  after  his  own  fashion,  a  tale  already  related  by  another. 
This  is  not  one  of  the  hoaxes  in  vogue  in  the  year  1830, 
when  every  author  wrote  his  '  tale  of  horror'  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  young  ladies.  When  you  have  read  the  account  of 
Don  Juan's  decorous  parricide,  try  to  picture  to  yourself  the 
part  which  would  be  played  under  very  similar  circumstances 
by  honest  folk  who,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  will  take  a 
man's  money  and  undertake  to  pay  him  a  life  annuity  on  the 
faith  of  a  chill,  or  let  a  house  to  an  ancient  lady  for  the  term 
of  her  natural  life  ?  Would  they  be  for  resuscitating  their 
clients  ?  I  should  dearly  like  a  connoisseur  in  consciences  to 
consider  how  far  there  is  a  resemblance  between  a  Don  Juan 
and  fathers  who  marry  their  children  to  great  expectations. 
Does  humanity,  which,  according  to  certain  philosophers,  is 
making  progress,  look  on  the  art  of  waiting  for  dead  men's 
shoes  as  a  step  in  the  right  direction  ?  To  this  art  we  owe 
several  honourable  professions,  which  open  up  ways  of  living 
on  death.     There  are  people  who  rely  entirely  on  an  expected 

334 


The  Elixir  of  Life  335 

demise  ;  who  brood  over  it,  crouching  each  morning  upon  a 
corpse,  that  serves  again  for  their  pillow  at  night.  To  this 
class  belong  bishops'  coadjutors,  cardinals'  supernumeraries, 
tontiniers,  and  the  like.  Add  to  the  list  many  delicately 
scrupulous  persons  eager  to  buy  landed  property  beyond  their 
means,  who  calculate  with  dry  logic  and  in  cold  blood  the 
probable  duration  of  the  life  of  a  father  or  of  a  stepmother, 
some  old  man  or  woman  of  eighty  or  ninety,  saying  to  them- 
selves, '  I  shall  be  sure  to  come  in  for  it  in  three  years'  time, 

and  then '     A  murderer  is  less  loathsome   to  us  than  a 

spy.  The  murderer  may  have  acted  on  a  sudden  mad  impulse  ; 
he  may  be  penitent  and  amend  ;  but  a  spy  is  always  a  spy, 
night  and  day,  in  bed,  at  table,  as  he  walks  abroad  ;  his  vile- 
ness  pervades  every  moment  of  his  life.  Then  what  must  it 
be  to  live  when  every  moment  of  your  life  is  tainted  with 
murder  ?  And  have  we  not  just  admitted  that  a  host  of 
human  creatures  in  our  midst  are  led  by  our  laws,  customs, 
and  usages  to  dwell  without  ceasing  on  a  fellow-creature's 
death.  There  are  men  who  put  the  weight  of  a  coffin  into 
their  deliberations  as  they  bargain  for  Cashmere  shawls  for 
their  wives,  as  they  go  up  the  staircase  of  a  theatre,  or  think 
of  going  to  the  Bouffons,  or  of  setting  up  a  carriage  ;  who 
are  murderers  in  thought  when  dear  ones,  with  the  irresistible 
charm  of  innocence,  hold  up  childish  foreheads  to  be  kissed 
with  a  '  Good-night,  father  !  '  Hourly  they  meet  the  gaze  of 
eyes  that  they  would  fain  close  for  ever,  eyes  that  still  open 
each  morning  to  the  light,  like  Belvidero's  in  this  Study. 
God  alone  knows  the  number  of  those  who  are  parricides 
in  thought.  Picture  to  yourself  the  state  of  mind  of  a  man 
who  must  pay  a  life  annuity  to  some  old  woman  whom 
he  scarcely  knows  ;  both  live  in  the  country  with  a  brook 
between  them,  both  sides  are  free  to  hate  cordially,  without 
offending  against  the  social  conventions  that  require  two 
brothers  to  wear  a  mask  if  the  older  will  succeed  to  the  entail, 
and  the  other  to  the  fortune  of  a  younger  son.  The  whole 
civilisation  of  Europe  turns  upon  the  principle  of  hereditary 
succession  as  upon  a  pivot  ;  it  would  be  madness  to  subvert  the 
principle  ;  but  could  we  not,  in  an  age  that  prides  itself  upon 
its  mechanical  inventions,  perfect  this  essential  portion  of  the 
social  machinery  ? 


336  The  Elixir  of  Life 

If  the  author  has  preserved  the  old-fashioned  style  of 
address  To  the  Reader  before  a  work  wherein  he  endeavours 
to  represent  all  literary  forms,  it  is  for  the  purpose  of  making 
a  remark  that  applies  to  several  of  the  Studies,  and  very 
specially  to  this.  Every  one  of  his  compositions  has  been 
based  upon  ideas  more  or  less  novel,  which,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
needed  literary  expression  ;  he  can  claim  priority  for  certain 
forms  and  for  certain  ideas  which  have  since  passed  into  the 
domain  of  literature,  and  have  there,  in  some  instances,  become 
common  property;  so  that  the  date  of  the  first  publication  of 
each  Study  cannot  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  those  of  his 
readers  who  would  fain  do  him  justice. 

Reading  brings  us  unknown  friends,  and  what  friend  is  like 
a  reader  !  We  have  friends  in  our  own  circle  who  read 
nothing  of  ours.  The  author  hopes  to  pay  his  debt,  by 
dedicating  this  work  Dits  ignotis. 


One  winter  evening,  in  a  princely  palace  at  Ferrara, 
Don  Juan  Belvidero  was  giving  a  banquet  to  a  prince  of 
the  house  of  Este.  A  banquet  in  those  times  was  a  mar- 
vellous spectacle  which  only  royal  wealth  or  the  power 
of  a  mighty  lord  could  furnish  forth.  Seated  about  a 
table  lit  up  with  perfumed  tapers,  seven  laughter-loving 
women  were  interchanging  sweet  talk.  The  white 
marble  of  the  noble  works  of  art  about  them  stood  out 
against  the  red  stucco  walls,  and  made  strong  contrasts 
with  the  rich  Turkey  carpets.  Clad  in  satin,  glittering 
with  gold,  and  covered  with  gems  less  brilliant  than 
their  eyes,  each  told  a  tale  of  energetic  passions  as  diverse 
as  their  styles  of  beauty.  They  differed  neither  in  their 
ideas  nor  in  their  language  ;  but  the  expression  of  their 
eyes,  their  glances,  occasional  gestures,  or  the  tones  of 
their  voices  supplied  a  commentary,  dissolute,  wanton, 
melancholy,  or  satirical,  to  their  words. 

One  seemed  to  be  saying — *The  frozen  heart  of  age 
might  kindle  at  my  beauty.' 

Another — *  I  love  to  lounge  upon  cushions,  and  think 
with  rapture  of  my  adorers.' 


The  Elixir  of  Life  337 

A  third,  a  neophyte  at  these  banquets,  was  inclined  to 
blush.  '  I  feel  remorse  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  !  I 
am  a  Catholic,  and  afraid  of  hell.  But  I  love  you,  I  love 
you  so  that  I  can  sacrifice  my  hereafter  to  you.' 

The  fourth  drained  a  cup  of  Chian  wine.  '  Give  me 
a  joyous  life  !  '  she  cried  ;  *  I  begin  life  afresh  each  day 
with  the  dawn.  Forgetful  of  the  past,  with  the  intoxi- 
cation of  yesterday's  rapture  still  upon  me,  I  drink  deep 
of  life — a  whole  lifetime  of  pleasure  and  of  love  !  ' 

The  woman  who  sat  next  to  Juan  Belvidero  looked 
at  him  with  a  feverish  glitter  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
silent.  Then — *  I  should  need  no  hired  bravo  to  kill 
my  lover  if  he  forsook  me  !  '  she  cried  at  last,  and 
laughed,  but  the  marvellously  wrought  gold  comfit  box 
in  her  fingers  was  crushed  by  her  convulsive  clutch. 

'  When  are  you  to  be  Grand  Duke  ?  '  asked  the  sixth. 
There  was  the  frenzy  of  a  Bacchante  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  teeth  gleamed  between  the  lips  parted  with  a  smile 
of  cruel  glee. 

*  Yes,  when  is  that  father  of  yours  going  to  die  ?  ' 
asked  the  seventh,  throwing  her  bouquet  at  Don  Juan 
with  bewitching  playfulness.  It  was  a  childish  girl  who 
spoke,  and  the  speaker  was  wont  to  make  sport  of  sacred 
things. 

*  Oh  !  don't  talk  about  it,'  cried  Don  Juan,  the  young 
and  handsome  giver  of  the  banquet.  *  There  is  but  one 
eternal  father,  and,  as  ill  luck  will  have  it,  he  is  mine.' 

The  seven  Ferrarese,  Don  Juan's  friends,  the  Prince 
himself,  gave  a  cry  of  horror.  Two  hundred  years  later, 
in  the  days  of  Louis  xv.,  people  of  taste  would  have 
laughed  at  this  witticism.  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  that  at 
the  outset  of  an  orgy  there  is  a  certain  unwonted  lucidity 
of  mind  ?  Despite  the  taper  light,  the  clamour  of  the 
senses,  the  gleam  of  gold  and  silver,  the  fumes  of  wine, 
and  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  women,  there  may  per- 
haps have  been  in  the  depths  of  the  revellers'  hearts  some 
struggling  glimmer  of  reverence  for  things  divine  and 

y 


338  The  Elixir  of  Life 

human,  until  it  was  drowned  in  glowing  floods  of  wine  ? 
Yet  even  then  the  flowers  had  been  crushed,  eyes  were 
growing  dull,  and  drunkenness,  in  Rabelais'  phrase,  had 
*  taken  possession  of  them  down  to  their  sandals.' 

During  that  brief  pause  a  door  opened  ;  and  as  once 
the  Divine  presence  was  revealed  at  Belshazzar's  feast, 
so  now  it  seemed  to  be  manifest  in  the  apparition  of  an 
old  white-haired  servant,  who  tottered  in,  and  looked 
sadly  from  under  knitted  brows  at  the  revellers.  He 
gave  a  withering  glance  at  the  garlands,  the  golden 
cups,  the  pyramids  of  fruit,  the  dazzling  lights  of  the 
banquet,  the  flushed  scared  faces,  the  hues  of  the  cushions 
pressed  by  the  white  arms  of  the  women. 

'  My  Lord,  your  father  is  dying  !  '  he  said  ;  and  at 
those  solemn  words,  uttered  in  hollow  tones,  a  veil  of 
crape  seemed  to  be  drawn  over  the  wild  mirth. 

Don  Juan  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  gesture  to  his  guests 
that  might  be  rendered  by,  '  Excuse  me  j  this  kind  of 
thing  does  not  happen  every  day.' 

Does  it  so  seldom  happen  that  a  father's  death  sur- 
prises youth  in  the  full-blown  splendour  of  life,  in  the 
midst  of  the  mad  riot  of  an  orgy  ?  Death  is  as  unex- 
pected in  his  caprice  as  a  courtesan  in  her  disdain  ;  but 
Death  is  truer — Death  has  never  forsaken  any  man. 

Don  Juan  closed  the  door  of  the  banqueting-hall  ; 
and  as  he  went  down  the  long  gallery,  through  the  cold 
and  darkness,  he  strove  to  assume  an  expression  in  keep- 
ing with  the  part  he  had  to  play  ;  he  had  thrown  off  his 
mirthful  mood,  as  he  had  thrown  down  his  table  napkin, 
at  the  first  thought  of  this  rôle.  The  night  was  dark. 
The  mute  servitor,  his  guide  to  the  chamber  where  the 
dying  man  lay,  lighted  the  way  so  dimly,  that  Death, 
aided  by  cold,  silence,  and  darkness,  and  it  may  be  by  a 
reaction  of  drunkenness,  could  send  some  sober  thoughts 
through  the  spendthrift's  soul.  He  examined  his  life, 
and  became  thoughtful,  like  a  man  involved  in  a  lawsuit 
on  his  way  to  the  Court. 


The  Elixir  of  Life  339 

Bartolommeo  Belvidero,  Don  Juan's  father,  was  an 
old  man  of  ninety,  who  had  devoted  the  greatest  part 
of  his  life  to  business  pursuits.  He  had  acquired  vast 
wealth  in  many  a  journey  in  magical  Eastern  lands,  and 
knowledge,  so  it  was  said,  more  valuable  than  the  gold 
and  diamonds,  which  had  almost  ceased  to  have  any 
value  for  him. 

*  I  would  give  more  to  have  a  tooth  in  my  head  than 
for  a  ruby,'  he  would  say  at  times  with  a  smile.  The 
indulgent  father  loved  to  hear  Don  Juan's  story  of  this 
and  that  wild  freak  of  youth.  '  So  long  as  these  follies 
amuse  you,  dear  boy — '  he  would  say  laughingly,  as  he 
lavished  money  on  his  son.  Age  never  took  such 
pleasure  in  the  sight  of  youth  ;  the  fond  father  did  not 
remember  his  own  decaying  powers  while  he  looked  on 
that  brilliant  young  life. 

Bartolommeo  Belvidero,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  had  fallen 
in  love  with  an  angel  of  peace  and  beauty.  Don  Juan 
had  been  the  sole  fruit  of  this  late  and  short-lived  love. 
For  fifteen  years  the  widower  had  mourned  the  loss  of 
his  beloved  Juana;  and  to  this  sorrow  of  age,  his  son 
and  his  numerous  household  had  attributed  the  strange 
habits  that  he  had  contracted.  He  had  shut  himself  up 
in  the  least  comfortable  wing  of  his  palace,  and  very 
seldom  left  his  apartments  j  even  Don  Juan  himself 
must  first  ask  permission  before  seeing  his  father.  If 
this  hermit,  unbound  by  vows,  came  or  went  in  his 
palace  or  in  the  streets  of  Ferrara,  he  walked  as  if  he 
were  in  a  dream,  wholly  engrossed,  like  a  man  at  strife 
with  a  memory,  or  a  wrestler  with  some  thought. 

The  young  Don  Juan  might  give  princely  banquets, 
the  palace  might  echo  with  clamorous  mirth,  horses 
pawed  the  ground  in  the  courtyards,  pages  quarrelled 
and  flung  dice  upon  the  stairs,  but  Bartolommeo  ate 
his  seven  ounces  of  bread  daily  and  drank  water.  A 
fowl  was  occasionally  dressed  for  him,  simply  that  the 
black  poodle,   his  faithful  companion,  might  have  the 


340  The  Elixir  of  Life 

bones.  Bartolommeo  never  complained  of  the  noise. 
If  huntsmen's  horns  and  baying  dogs  disturbed  his  sleep 
during  his  illness,  he  only  said,  '  Ah  !  Don  Juan  has 
come  back  again.'  Never  on  earth  has  there  been  a 
father  so  little  exacting  and  so  indulgent  ;  and,  in  con- 
sequence, young  Belvidero,  accustomed  to  treat  his 
father  unceremoniously,  had  all  the  faults  of  a  spoiled 
child.  He  treated  old  Bartolommeo  as  a  wilful  courtesan 
treats  an  elderly  adorer  j  buying  indemnity  for  insolence 
with  a  smile,  selling  good-humour,  submitting  to  be 
loved. 

Don  Juan,  beholding  scene  after  scene  of  his  younger 
years,  saw  that  it  would  be  a  difficult  task  to  find  his 
father's  indulgence  at  fault.  Some  new-born  remorse 
stirred  the  depths  of  his  heart  j  he  felt  almost  ready  to 
forgive  this  father  now  about  to  die  for  having  lived  so 
long.  He  had  an  accession  of  filial  piety,  like  a  thiePs 
return  in  thought  to  honesty  at  the  prospect  of  a  million 
adroitly  stolen. 

Before  long  Don  Juan  had  crossed  the  lofty  chilly 
suite  of  rooms  in  which  his  father  lived  ;  the  penetrating 
influences  of  the  damp  close  air,  the  mustiness  diffused 
by  old  tapestries  and  presses  thickly  covered  with  dust 
had  passed  into  him,  and  now  he  stood  in  the  old  man's 
antiquated  room,  in  the  repulsive  presence  of  the  death- 
bed, beside  a  dying  fire.  A  flickering  lamp  on  a  Gothic 
table  sent  broad  uncertain  shafts  of  light,  fainter  or 
brighter,  across  the  bed,  so  that  the  dying  man's  face 
seemed  to  wear  a  different  look  at  every  moment.  The 
bitter  wind  whistled  through  the  crannies  of  the  ill- 
fitting  casements  j  there  was  a  smothered  sound  of  snow 
lashing  the  windows.  The  harsh  contrast  of  these  sights 
and  sounds  with  the  scenes  which  Don  Juan  had  just 
quitted  was  so  sudden,  that  he  could  not  help  shudder- 
ing. He  turned  cold  as  he  came  towards  the  bed  j 
the  lamp  flared  in  a  sudden  vehement  gust  of  wind  and 
lighted  up  his  father's  face  i  the  features  were  wasted 


The  Elixir  of  Life  J4i 

and  distorted  ;  the  skin  that  cleaved  to  their  bony  outlines 
had  taken  wan  livid  hues,  all  the  more  ghastly  by  force 
of  contrast  with  the  white  pillows  on  which  he  lay. 
The  muscles  about  the  toothless  mouth  had  contracted 
with  pain  and  drawn  apart  the  lips  ;  the  moans  that  issued 
between  them  with  appalling  energy  found  an  accom- 
paniment in  the  howling  of  the  storm  without. 

In  spite  of  every  sign  of  coming  dissolution,  the  most 
striking  thing  about  the  dying  face  was  its  incredible 
power.  It  was  no  ordinary  spirit  that  wrestled  there 
with  Death.  The  eyes  glared  with  strange  fixity  of 
gaze  from  the  cavernous  sockets  hollowed  by  disease. 
It  seemed  as  if  Bartolommeo  sought  to  kill  some  enemy 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  by  the  intent  gaze  of 
dying  eyes.  That  steady  remorseless  look  was  the  more 
appalling  because  the  head  that  lay  upon  the  pillow  was 
passive  and  motionless  as  a  skull  upon  a  doctor's  table. 
The  outlines  of  the  body,  revealed  by  the  coverlet,  were 
no  less  rigid  and  stiff;  he  lay  there  as  one  dead,  save  for 
those  eyes.  There  was  something  automatic  about  the 
moaning  sounds  that  came  from  the  mouth.  Don  Juan 
felt  something  like  shame  that  he  must  be  brought  thus 
to  his  father's  bedside,  wearing  a  courtesan's  bouquet, 
redolent  of  the  fragrance  of  the  banqueting-chamber  and 
the  fumes  of  wine. 

*  You  were  enjoying  yourself!'  the  old  man  cried  as 
he  saw  his  son. 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  pure  high  notes  of  a  woman's 
voice,  sustained  by  the  sound  of  the  viol  on  which  she 
accompanied  her  song,  rose  above  the  rattle  of  the  storm 
against  the  casements,  and  floated  up  to  the  chamber  of 
death.  Don  Juan  stopped  his  ears  against  the  barbarous 
answer  to  his  father's  speech. 

*  I  bear  you  no  grudge,  my  child,'  Bartolommeo  went  on. 
The  words  were  full  of  kindness,  but   they  hurt  Don 

Juan  ;  he  could  not  pardon  this  heart-searching  goodness 
on  his  father's  part. 


34*  The  Elixir  of  Life 

*  What  a  remorseful  memory  for  me  !  '  he  cried,  hypo- 
critically. 

*  Poor  Juanino,'  the  dying  man  went  on,  in  a  smothered 
voice,  *  I  have  always  been  so  kind  to  you,  that  you  could 
not  surely  desire  my  death  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  if  it  were  only  possible  to  keep  you  here  by 
giving  up  a  part  of  my  own  life  !  '  cried  Don  Juan. 

(*  We  can  always  say  this  sort  of  thing,'  the  spendthrift 
thought  ;  'it  is  as  if  I  laid  the  whole  world  at  my 
mistress's  feet.') 

The  thought  had  scarcely  crossed  his  mind  when  the 
old  poodle  barked.  Don  Juan  shivered  ;  the  response  was 
so  intelligent  that  he  fancied  the  dog  must  have  under- 
stood him. 

*  I  was  sure  that  I  could  count  upon  you,  my  son  !  ' 
cried  the  dying  man.  *  I  shall  live.  So  be  it  ;  you  shall 
be  satisfied.  I  shall  live,  but  without  depriving  you  of  a 
single  day  of  your  life.' 

*  He  is  raving,'  thought  Don  Juan.  Aloud  he  added, 
'  Yes,  dearest  father,  yes  ;  you  shall  live,  of  course,  as  long 
as  I  live,  for  your  image  will  be  for  ever  in  my  heart.' 

*  It  is  not  that  kind  of  life  that  I  mean,'  said  the  old 
noble,  summoning  all  his  strength  to  sit  up  in  bed  ;  for 
a  thrill  of  doubt  ran  through  him,  one  of  those  suspicions 
that    come    into    being    under    a    dying    man's   pillow. 

*  Listen,  my  son,'  he  went  on,  in  a  voice  grown  weak 
with  that  last  effort,  *  I  have  no  more  wish  to  give  up 
life  than  you  to  give  up  wine  and  mistresses,  horses  and 
hounds,  and  hawks  and  gold ' 

*  I  can  well  believe  it,'  thought  the  son  ;  and  he  knelt 
down  by  the  bed  and  kissed  Bartolommeo's  cold  hands. 

*  But,  father,  my  dear  father,'  he  added  aloud,  '  we  must 
submit  to  the  will  of  God.' 

*  I  am  God  !  '  muttered  the  dying  man. 

*  Do  not  blaspheme  !  '  cried  the  other,  as  he  saw  the 
menacing  expression  on  his  father's  face.  '  Beware  what 
you  say  ;  you  have  received  extreme  unction,  and  J  should 


The  Elixir  of  Life  343 

36  inconsolable  if  you  were  to  die  before  my  eyes  in 
nortal  sin.' 

*  Will  you  listen  to  me  ?  '  cried  Bartolommeo,  and  his 
nouth  twitched. 

Don  Juan  held  his  peace  ;  an  ugly  silence  prevailed. 
Yet  above  the  muffled  sound  of  the  beating  of  the  snow 
against  the  windows  rose  the  sounds  of  the  beautiful 
voice  and  the  viol  in  unison,  far  off  and  faint  as  the 
dawn.     The  dying  man  smiled. 

*  Thank  you,'  he  said,  '  for  bringing  those  singing 
voices  and  the  music,  a  banquet,  young  and  lovely 
women  with  fair  faces  and  dark  tresses,  all  the  pleasures 
of  life  !  Bid  them  wait  for  me  ;  for  I  am  about  to  begin 
life  anew.' 

'The  delirium  is  at  its  height,'  said  Don  Juan  to 
himself. 

*  I  have  found  out  a  way  of  coming  to  life  again,'  the 
speaker  went  on.  *  There,  just  look  in  that  table  drawer, 
press  the  spring  hidden  by  the  griffin,  and  it  will  fly 
open.' 

*  I  have  found  it,  father.' 

*Well,  then,  now    take   out   a   little    phial   of  rock 
crystal.' 
'  I  have  it.* 

*  I  have  spent  twenty  years  in '  but  even  as  he  spoke 

the  old  man  felt  how  very  near  the  end  had  come,  and 
summoned  all  his  dying  strength  to  say,  *■  As  soon  as  the 
breath  is  out  of  me,  rub  me  all  over  with  that  hquid, 
and  I  shall  come  to  life  again.' 

*  There  is  very  little  of  it,'  his  son  remarked. 
Though  Bartolommeo  could  no  longer  speak,  he  could 

still  hear  and  see.  When  those  words  dropped  from 
Don  Juan,  his  head  turned  with  appalling  quickness, 
his  neck  was  twisted  like  the  throat  of  some  marble 
statue  which  the  sculptor  has  condemned  to  remain 
stretched  out  for  ever,  the  wide  eyes  had  come  to  have  a 
ghastly  fixity. 


344  The  Elixir  of  Life 

He  was  dead,  and  in  death  he  lost  his  last  and  sole 
illusion. 

He  had  sought  a  shelter  in  his  son's  heart,  and  it  had 
proved  to  be  a  sepulchre,  a  pit  deeper  than  men  dig  for 
their  dead.  The  hair  on  his  head  had  risen  and  stiffened 
with  horror,  his  agonised  glance  still  spoke.  He  was  a 
father  rising  in  just  anger  from  his  tomb,  to  demand 
vengeance  at  the  throne  of  God. 

*  There  !  it  is  all  over  with  the  old  man  !  cried  Don 
Juan. 

He  had  been  so  interested  in  holding  the  mysterious 
phial  to  the  lamp,  as  a  drinker  holds  up  the  wine-bottle  at 
the  end  of  a  meal,  that  he  had  not  seen  his  father's  eyes 
fade.  The  cowering  poodle  looked  from  his  master  to 
the  elixir,  just  as  Don  Juan  himself  glanced  again  and 
again  from  his  father  to  the  flask.  The  lamplight 
flickered.  There  was  a  deep  silence  ;  the  viol  was 
mute.  Juan  Belvidero  thought  that  he  saw  his  father 
stir,  and  trembled.  The  changeless  gaze  of  those  accus- 
ing eyes  frightened  him  ;  he  closed  them  hastily,  as  he 
would  have  closed  a  loose  shutter  swayed  by  the  wind 
of  an  autumn  night.  He  stood  there  motionless,  lost 
in  a  world  of  thought. 

Suddenly  thé  silence  was  broken  by  a  shrill  sound  like 
the  creaking  of  a  rusty  spring.  It  startled  Don  Juan  ;  he 
all  but  dropped  the  phial.  A  sweat,  colder  than  the 
blade  of  a  dagger,  issued  through  every  pore.  It  was 
only  a  piece  of  clockwork,  a  wooden  cock  that  sprang 
out  and  crowed  three  times,  an  ingenious  contrivance 
by  which  the  learned  of  that  epoch  were  wont  to  be 
awakened  at  the  appointed  hour  to  begin  the  labours  of 
the  day.  Through  the  windows  there  came  already  a 
flush  of  dawn.  The  thing,  composed  of  wood,  and 
cords,  and  wheels,  and  pulleys,  was  more  faithful  in  its 
service  than  ht-  in  his  duty  to  Bartolommeo — he,  a  man 
with  that  peculiar  piece  of  human  mechanism  within 
him  that  we  call  a  heart. 


The  Elixir  of  Life  345 

Don  Juan  the  sceptic  shut  the  flask  again  in  the 
ecret  drawer  in  the  Gothic  table — he  meant  to  run  no 
nore  risks  of  losing  the  mysterious  liquid. 

Even  at  that  solemn  moment  he  heard  the  murmur  ot 

crowd  in  the  gallery,  a  confused  sound  of  voices,  of 
tifled  laughter  and  light  footfalls,  and  the  rustling  of 
ilks — the  sounds  of  a  band  of  revellers  struggling  for 
ravity.     The  door  opened,  and  in  came  the  Prince  and 

on  Juan's  friends,  the  seven  courtesans,  and  the  singers, 
ishevelled  and  wild  like  dancers  surprised  by  the  dawn, 
hen  the  tapers  that  have  burned  through  the  night 
truggle  with  the  sunlight. 

They  had  come  to  offer  the  customary  condolence  to 
the  young  heir. 

'  Oho  !  is  poor  Don  Juan  really  taking  this  seriously.?  ' 
said  the  Prince  in  Brambilla's  ear. 

*  Well,  his  father  was  very  good,'  she  returned. 

But  Don  Juan's  night-thoughts  had  left  such  unmis- 
takable traces  on  his  features,  that  the  crew  was  awed 
into  silence.  The  men  stood  motionless.  The  women, 
with  wine-parched  lips  and  cheeks  marbled  with  kisses, 
knelt  down  and  began  a  prayer.  Don  Juan  could  scarce 
help  trembling  when  he  saw  splendour  and  mirth  and 
laughter  and  song  and  youth  and  beauty  and  power 
bowed  in  reverence  before  Death.  But  in  those  times, 
in  that  adorable  Italy  of  the  sixteenth  century,  religion  and 
revelry  went  hand  in  hand  ;  and  religious  excess  became 
a  sort  of  debauch,  and  a  debauch  a  religious  rite  ! 

The  Prince  grasped  Don  Juan's  hand  affectionately, 
then  when  all  faces  had  simultaneously  put  on  the  same 
grimace  —  half-gloomy,  half-indifferent  —  the  whole 
masque  disappeared,  and  left  the  chamber  of  death  empty. 
It  was  like  an  allegory  of  life. 

As  they  went  down  the  staircase,  the  Prince  spoke  to 
Rivabarella  :  '  Now,  who  would  have  taken  Don  Juan's 
impiety  for  a  boast  ?      He  loves  his  father.' 

'  Did  vou  see  that  black  dog  }  '  asked  La  Brambilla. 


34^  The  Elixir  of  Life 

*  He  is  enormously  rich  now,'  sighed  Bianca  Cavatoh'no. 

*  What  is  that  to  me  ?  '  cried  the  proud  Veronese  (she 
who  had  crushed  the  comfit-box). 

*  What  does  it  matter  to  you,  forsooth  ?  '  cried  the 
Duke.  *With  his  money  he  is  as  much  a  prince  as 
lam.' 

At  first  Don  Juan  was  swayed  hither  and  thither  by 
countless  thoughts,  and  wavered  between  two  decisions. 
He  took  counsel  with  the  gold  heaped  up  by  his  father, 
and  returned  in  the  evening  to  the  chamber  of  death,  his 
whole  soul  brimming  over  with  hideous  selfishness.  He 
found  all  his  household  busy  there.  '  His  lordship  '  was 
to  lie  in  state  to-morrow  ;  all  Ferrara  would  flock  to 
behold  the  wonderful  spectacle  ;  and  the  servants  were 
busy  decking  the  room  and  the  couch  on  which  the  dead 
man  lay.  At  a  sign  from  Don  Juan  all  his  people 
stopped,  dumbfounded  and  trembling. 

*  Leave  me  alone  here,'  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 
changed,  *and  do  not  return  until  I  leave  the  room.' 

When  the  footsteps  of  the  old  servitor,  who  was  the  last 
to  go,  echoed  but  faintly  along  the  paved  gallery,  Don 
Juan  hastily  locked  the  door,  and,  sure  that  he  was  quite 
alone,  *  Let  us  try,'  he  said  to  himself. 

Bartolommeô's  body  was  stretched  on  a  long  table.  The 
embalmers  had  laid  a  sheet  over  it,  to  hide  from  all  eyes 
the  dreadful  spectacle  of  a  corpse  so  wasted  and  shrunken 
that  it  seemed  like  a  skeleton,  and  only  the  face  was 
uncovered.  This  mummy-like  form  lay  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  The  limp  clinging  linen  lent  itself  to  the 
outlines  it  shrouded — so  sharp,  bony,  and  thin.  Large 
violet  patches  had  already  begun  to  spread  over  the 
face  ;  the  embalmer's  work  had  not  been  finished  too 
soon. 

Don  Juan,  strong  as  he  was  in  his  scepticism,  felt  a 
tremor  as  he  opened  the  magic  crystal  flask.  When  he 
stood  over  that  face,  he  was  trembling  so  violently,  that 
he  was  actually  obliged  to  wait  for  a  moment.     But  Don 


The  Elixir  of  Life  ^47 

uan  had  acquired  an  early  familiarity  with  evil  ;  his 
orals  had  been  corrupted  by  a  licentious  court,  a  reflec- 
lion  worthy  of  the  Duke  of  Urbino  crossed  his  mind, 
nd  it  was  a  keen  sense  of  curiosity  that  goaded  him 
nto  boldness.  The  devil  himself  might  have  whispered 
he  words  that  were  echoing  through  his  brain.  Moisten 
ne  of  the  eyes  with  the  liquid  !  He  took  up  a  linen  cloth, 
oistened  it  sparingly  with  the  precious  fluid,  and  passed 
t  lightly  over  the  right  eyelid  of  the  corpse.  The  eye 
nclosed.  .  .  . 

*  Aha  !  '  said  Don  Juan.  He  gripped  the  flask  tightly, 
s  we  clutch  in  dreams  the  branch  from  which  we  hang 
uspended  over  a  precipice. 

For  the  eye  was  full  of  life.  It  was  a  young  child's  eye 
set  in  a  death's  head  ;  the  light  quivered  in  the  depths  of 
its  youthful  hquid  brightness.  Shaded  by  the  long  dark 
lashes,  it  sparkled  like  the  strange  lights  that  travellers 
see  in  lonely  places  in  winter  nights.  That  eye  seemed 
as  if  it  would  fain  dart  fire  at  Don  Juan  ;  he  saw  it 
thinking,  upbraiding,  condemning,  uttering  accusations, 
threatening  doom  ;  it  cried  aloud,  and  gnashed  upon 
him.  All  anguish  that  shakes  human  souls  was  gathered 
there  ;  supplications  the  most  tender,  the  wrath  of  kings, 
the  love  in  a  girl's  heart  pleading  with  the  headsman  ; 
then,  and  after  all  these,  the  deeply  searching  glance  a 
man  turns  on  his  fellows  as  he  mounts  the  last  step  of  the 
scaff'old.  Life  so  dilated  in  this  fragment  of  life  that 
Don  Juan  shrank  back;  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  he  dared  not  meet  that  gaze,  but  he  saw  nothing 
else.  The  ceiling  and  the  hangings,  the  whole  room  was 
sown  with  living  points  of  fire  and  intelligence.  Every- 
where those  gleaming  eyes  haunted  him. 

'  He  might  very  likely  have  lived  another  hundred 
years!'  he  cried  involuntarily.  Some  diabolical  influence 
had  drawn  him  to  his  father,  and  again  he  gazed  at  that 
luminous  spark.  The  eyelid  closed  and  opened  again 
abruptly  ;  it  was  like  a  woman's  sign  of  assent.    It  was  an 


J48  The  Elixir  of  Life 

intelligent  movement.  If  a  voice  had  cried  '  Yes  !  '  Don 
Juan  could  not  have  been  more  startled. 

'  What  is  to  be  done  ?  '  he  thought. 

He  nerved  himself  to  try  to  close  the  white  eyelid. 
In  vain. 

*  Kill  it  ?  That  would  perhaps  be  parricide,'  he 
debated  with  himself. 

'  Yes,'  the  eye  said,  with  a  strange  sardonic  quiver  of 
the  lid. 

*  Aha  !  '  said  Don  Juan  to  himself,  '  here  is  witchcraft 
at  work  !  '  And  he  went  closer  to  crush  the  thing.  A 
great  tear  trickled  over  the  hollow  cheeks,  and  fell  on 
Don  Juan's  hand. 

*  It  is  scalding  !  '  he  cried.  He  sat  down.  This 
struggle  exhausted  him  ;  it  was  as  if,  like  Jacob  of  old, 
he  was  wrestling  with  an  angel. 

At  last  he  rose.     'So  long  as  there  is  no  blood ' 

he  muttered. 

Then,  summoning  all  the  courage  needed  for  a  coward's 
crime,  he  extinguished  the  eye,  pressing  it  with  the 
Hnen  cloth,  turning  his  head  away,  A  terrible  groan 
startled  him.  It  was  the  poor  poodle,  who  died  with  a 
long-drawn  howl. 

'  Could  the  brute  have  been  in  the  secret  ?  '  thought 
Don  Juan,  looking  down  at  the  faithful  creature. 

Don  Juan  Belvidero  was  looked  upon  as  a  dutiful  son. 
He  reared  a  white  marble  monument  on  his  father's 
tomb,  and  employed  the  greatest  sculptors  of  the  time 
upon  it.  He  did  not  recover  perfect  ease  of  mind  till 
the  day  when  his  father  knelt  in  marble  before  Religion, 
and  the  heavy  weight  of  the  stone  had  sealed  the  mouth 
of  the  grave  in  which  he  had  laid  the  one  feeling  of 
remorse  that  sometimes  flitted  through  his  soul  in 
moments  of  physical  weariness. 

He  had  drawn  up  a  list  of  the  wealth  heaped  up  by  the 
old  merchant  in  the  East,  and  he  became  a  miser  :  had 


The  Elixir  of  Life  349 

le  not  to  provide  for  a  second  lifetime  ?  His  views  of 
ife  were  the  more  profound  and  penetrating  ;  he  grasped 
ts  significance,  as  a  whole,  the  better,  because  he  saw  it 
icross  a  grave.  All  men,  all  things,  he  analysed  once  and 
"or  all;  he  summed  up  the  Past,  represented  by  its  records; 
he  Present  in  the  law,  its  crystallised  form  ;  the  Future, 
evealed  by  religion.  He  took  spirit  and  matter,  and 
lung  them  into  his  crucible,  and  found  —  Nothing. 
Thenceforward  he  became  Don  Juan. 

At  the  outset  of  his  life,  in  the  prime  of  youth  and  the 
Deauty  of  youth,  he  knew  the  illusions  of  life  for  what 
they  were  ;  he  despised  the  world,  and  made  the  utmost 
Df  the  world.  His  felicity  could  not  have  been  of  the 
bourgeois  kind,  rejoicing  in  periodically  recurrent  bouilli^ 
n  the  comforts  of  a  warming-pan,  a  lamp  of  a  night, 
and  a  new  pair  of  slippers  once  a  quarter.  Nay,  rather 
he  seized  upon  existence  as  a  monkey  snatches  a  nut, 
and  after  no  long  toying  with  it,  proceeds  deftly  to  strip 
off  the  mere  husks  to  reach  the  savoury  kernel  within. 

Poetry  and  the  sublime  transports  of  passion  scarcely 
reached  ankle-depth  with  him  now.  He  in  nowise  fell  into 
the  error  of  strong  natures  who  flatter  themselves  now  and 
again  that  little  souls  will  believe  in  a  great  soul,  and  are 
willing  to  barter  their  own  lofty  thoughts  of  the  future 
for  the  small  change  of  our  life-annuity  ideas.  He,  even 
as  they,  had  he  chosen,  might  well  have  walked  with  his 
feet  on  the  earth  and  his  head  in  the  skies  ;  but  he  liked 
better  to  sit  on  earth,  to  wither  the  soft,  fresh,  fragrant 
lips  of  a  woman  with  kisses,  for,  like  Death,  he  devoured 
everything  without  scruple  as  he  passed  ;  he  would  have 
full  fruition  ;  he  was  an  Oriental  lover,  seeking  pro- 
longed pleasures  easily  obtained.  He  sought  nothing 
but  a  woman  in  women,  and  cultivated  cynicism,  until 
it  became  with  him  a  habit  of  mind.  When  his  mistress, 
from  the  couch  on  which  she  lay,  soared  and  was  lost  in 
regions  of  ecstatic  bliss,  Don  Juan  followed  suit,  earnest, 
expansive,  serious  as  any  German  student      But  he  said 


350  The  Elixir  of  Life 

I,  while  she,  in  the  transports  of  intoxication,  said  We. 
He  understood  to  admiration  the  art  of  abandoning  him- 
self to  the  influence  of  a  woman  j  he  was  always  clever 
enough  to  make  her  believe  that  he  trembled  like  some 
boy  fresh  from  college  before  his  first  partner  at  a  dance, 
when  he  asks  her,  '  Do  you  like  dancing  ?  '  But,  no 
less,  he  could  be  terrible  at  need,  could  unsheath  a 
formidable  sword  and  make  short  work  of  Commandants. 
Banter  lurked  beneath  his  simplicity,  mocking  laughter 
behind  his  tears — for  he  had  tears  at  need,  like  any 
woman  nowadays  who  says  to  her  husband,  *Give  me 
a  carriage,  or  I  shall  go  into  a  consumption.' 

For  a  merchant  the  world  is  a  bale  of  goods  or  a  mass 
of  circulating  bills  ;  for  most  young  men  it  is  a  woman, 
and  for  a  woman  here  and  there  it  is  a  man  ;  for  a 
certain  order  of  mind  it  is  a  salon,  a  coterie,  a  quarter  of 
the  town,  or  some  single  city  i  but  Don  Juan  found  his 
world  in  himself. 

This  model  of  grace  and  dignity,  this  captivating  wit, 
moored  his  bark  by  every  shore  ;  but  wherever  he  was 
led  he  was  never  carried  away,  and  was  only  steered  in  a 
course  of  his  own  choosing.  The  more  he  saw,  the 
more  he  doubted.  He  watched  men  narrowly,  and  saw 
how,  beneath  the  surface,  courage  was  often  rashness; 
and  prudence,  cowardice  ;  generosity,  a  clever  piece  ot 
calculation;  justice,  a  wrong;  delicacy,  pusillanimity; 
honesty,  a  modus  vivendi  ;  and  by  some  strange  dispensa- 
tion of  fate,  he  must  see  that  those  who  at  heart  were 
really  honest,  scrupulous,  just,  generous,  prudent,  or 
brave  were  held  cheaply  by  their  fellow-men. 

*  What  a  cold-blooded  jest  !  '  said  he  to  himself.  *  It 
was  not  devised  by  a  God.' 

From  that  time  forth  he  renounced  a  better  world, 
and  never  uncovered  himself  when  a  Name  was  pro- 
nounced, and  for  him  the  carven  saints  in  the  churches 
became  works  of  art.  He  understood  the  mechanism 
of  society  too  well  to  clash  wantonly  with  its  prejudices; 


The  Elixir  of  Life  351 

tor,  after  all,  he  was  not  as  powerful  as  the  executioner, 
but  he  evaded  social  laws  with  the  wit  and  grace  so  well 
rendered  in  the  scene  with  M.  Dimanche.  He  was,  in 
fact,  MoHère's  Don  Juan,  Goethe's  Faust,  Byron's 
Manfred,  Mathurin's  Melmoth — great  allegorical  figures 
drawn  by  the  greatest  men  of  genius  in  Europe,  to 
which  Mozart's  harmonies,  perhaps,  do  no  more  justice 
than  Rossini's  lyre.  Terrible  allegorical  figures  that 
shall  endure  as  long  as  the  principle  of  evil  existing  in 
the  heart  of  man  shall  produce  a  few  copies  from  century 
to  century.  Sometimes  the  type  becomes  half-human 
when  incarnate  as  a  Mirabeau,  sometimes  it  is  an  inarticu- 
late force  in  a  Bonaparte,  sometimes  it  overwhelms  the 
universe  with  irony  as  a  Rabelais  ;  or,  yet  again,  it  appears 
when  a  Maréchal  de  Richelieu  elects  to  laugh  at  human 
beings  instead  of  scoffing  at  things,  or  when  one  of  the 
most  famous  of  our  ambassadors  goes  a  step  further  and 
scoffs  at  both  men  and  things.  But  the  profound  genius 
of  Juan  Belvidero  anticipated  and  resumed  all  tliese.  All 
things  were  a  jest  to  him.  His  was  the  life  of  a  mocking 
spirit.  All  men,  all  institutions,  all  realities,  all  ideas 
were  within  its  scope.  As  for  eternity,  after  half  an 
hour  of  familiar  conversation  with  Pope  Julius  ii.  he  had 
said,  laughing — 

*  If  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  make  a  choice,  I  would 
rather  believe  in  God  than  in  the  Devil ,  power  com- 
bined with  goodness  always  offers  more  resources  than 
the  spirit  of  Evil  can  boast.' 

*  Yes  ;  still  God  requires  repentance  in  this  present 
world-^ ' 

'So  you  always  think  of  your  indulgences,'  returned 
Don  Juan  Belvidero.  *  Well,  well,  I  have  another  life 
in  reserve  in  which  to  repent  of  the  sins  of  my  previous 
existence.' 

'  Oh,  if  you  regard  old  age  in  that  light,'  cried  the 
Pope,  '  you  are  in  danger  of  canonisation ' 

*  After    your    elevation     to    the    Papacy    nothing    is 


2S2  The  Elixir  of  Life 

incredible.*  And  they  went  to  watch  the  workmen  who 
were  building  the  huge  basilica  dedicated  to  Saint  Peter. 

'  Saint  Peter,  as  the  man  of  genius  who  laid  the 
foundation  of  our  double  power,'  the  Pope  said  to  Don 
Juan,  *  deserves  this  monument.  Sometimes,  though,  at 
night,  I  think  that  a  deluge  will  wipe  all  this  out  as  with 
a  sponge,  and  it  will  be  all  to  begin  over  again.' 

Don  Juan  and  the  Pope  began  to  laugh;  they  under- 
stood each  other.  A  fool  would  have  gone  on  the 
morrow  to  amuse  himself  with  Julius  ii.  in  Raphael's 
studio  or  at  the  delicious  Villa  Madama  ;  not  so  Bel- 
videro.  He  went  to  see  the  Pope  as  pontiff,  to  be  con- 
vinced of  any  doubts  that  he  (Don  Juan)  entertained. 
Over  his  cups  the  Rovere  would  have  been  capable  of 
denying  his  own  infallibility  and  of  commenting  on  the 
Apocalypse. 

Nevertheless,  this  legend  has  not  been  undertaken  to 
furnish  materials  for  future  biographies  of  Don  Juan  j  it 
is  intended  to  prove  to  honest  folk  that  Belvidero  did 
not  die  in  a  duel  with  stone,  as  some  lithographers  would 
have  us  believe. 

When  Don  Juan  Belvidero  reached  the  age  of  sixty 
he  settled  in  Spain,  and  there  in  his  old  age  he  married  a 
young  and  charming  Andalusian  wife.  But  of  set 
purpose  he  was  neither  a  good  husband  nor  a  good  father. 
He  had  observed  that  we  are  never  so  tenderly  loved  as 
by  women  to  whom  we  scarcely  give  a  thought.  Dona 
Elvira  had  been  devoutly  brought  up  by  an  old  aunt  in 
a  castle  a  few  leagues  from  San  Lucar  in  a  remote  part 
of  Andalusia.  She  was  a  model  of  devotion  and  grace. 
Don  Juan  foresaw  that  this  would  be  a  woman  who 
would  struggle  long  against  a  passion  before  yielding, 
and  therefore  hoped  to  keep  her  virtuous  until  his  death. 
It  was  a  jest  undertaken  in  earnest,  a  game  of  chess 
which  he  meant  to  reserve  till  his  old  age.  Don  Juan 
had   learned  wisdom    from    the    mistakes    made   by  his 


The  Elixir  of  Life  353 

father  Bartolommeo  ;  he  determined  that  the  least 
details  of  his  life  in  old  age  should  be  subordinated  to 
one  object — the  success  of  the  drama  which  was  to  be 
played  out  upon  his  deathbed. 

For  the  same  reason  the  largest  part  of  his  wealth  was 
buried  in  the  cellars  of  his  palace  at  Ferrara,  whither  he 
seldom  went.  As  for  the  rest  of  his  fortune,  it  was 
invested  in  a  life  annuity,  with  a  view  to  give  his  wife 
and  children  an  interest  in  keeping  him  alive  ;  but  this 
Machiavellian  piece  of  foresight  was  scarcely  necessary. 
His  son,  young  Felipe  Belvidero,  grew  up  as  a  Spaniard 
as  religiously  conscientious  as  his  father  was  irreligious, 
in  virtue,  perhaps,  of  the  old  rule,  '  A  miser  has  a  spend- 
thrift son.'  The  Abbot  of  San-Lucar  was  chosen  by 
Don  Juan  to  be  the  director  of  the  consciences  of  the 
Duchess  of  Belvidero  and  her  son  Felipe.  The  ecclesi- 
astic was  a  holy  man,  well  shaped,  and  admirably  well 
proportioned.  He  had  fine  dark  eyes,  a  head  like  that 
of  Tiberius,  worn  with  fasting,  bleached  by  an  ascetic 
life,  and,  like  all  dwellers  in  the  wilderness,  was  daily 
tempted.  The  noble  lord  had  hopes,  it  may  be,  of  de- 
spatching yet  another  monk  before  his  term  of  life  was 
out. 

But  whether  because  the  Abbot  was  every  whit  as 
clever  as  Don  Juan  himself,  or  Doiïa  Elvira  possessed 
more  discretion  or  more  virtue  than  Spanish  wives  are 
usually  credited  with,  Don  Juan  was  compelled  to  spend 
his  declining  years  beneath  his  own  roof,  with  no  more 
scandal  under  it  than  if  he  had  been  an  ancient  country 
parson.  Occasionally  he  would  take  wife  and  son  to 
task  for  negligence  in  the  duties  of  religion,  peremptorily 
insisting  that  they  should  carry  out  to  the  letter  the 
obligations  imposed  upon  the  flock  by  the  Court  of 
Rome.  Indeed,  he  was  never  so  well  pleased  as  when 
he  had  set  the  courtly  Abbot  discussing  some  case  of 
conscience  with  Dona  Elvira  and  Felipe. 

At  length,  however,  despite  the  prodigious  care  that 


354  The  Elixir  of  Life 

the  great  magnifico,  Don  Juan  Belvidero,  took  of  him- 
self, the  days  of  decrepitude  came  upon  him,  and  with 
those  days  the  constant  importunity  of  physical  feeble- 
ness, an  importunity  all  the  more  distressing  by  contrast 
with  the  wealth  of  memories  of  his  impetuous  youth  and 
the  sensual  pleasures  of  middle  age.  The  unbeliever 
who  in  the  height  of  his  cynical  humour  had  been 
wont  to  persuade  others  to  believe  in  laws  and  prin- 
ciples at  which  he  scoffed,  must  repose  nightly  upon  a 
perhaps.  The  great  Duke,  the  pattern  of  good  breeding, 
the  champion  of  many  a  carouse,  the  proud  ornament  of 
Courts,  the  man  of  genius,  the  graceful  winner  of  hearts 
that  he  had  wrung  as  carelessly  as  a  peasant  twists  an 
osier  withe,  was  now  the  victim  of  a  cough,  of  a  ruthless 
sciatica,  of  an  unmannerly  gout.  His  teeth  gradually 
deserted  him,  as  at  the  end  of  an  evening  the  fairest  and 
best-dressed  women  take  their  leave  one  by  one  till  the 
room  is  left  empty  and  desolate.  The  active  hands 
became  palsy-stricken,  the  shapely  legs  tottered  as  he 
walked.  At  last,  one  night,  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  caught 
him  by  the  throat  in  its  icy  clutch.  After  that  fatal  day 
he  grew  morose  and  stern. 

He  would  reproach  his  wife  and  son  with  their 
devotion,  casting  it  in  their  teeth  that  the  affecting  and 
thoughtftil  care  that  they  lavished  so  tenderly  upon  him 
was  bestowed  because  they  knew  that  his  money  was 
invested  in  a  life  annuity.  Then  Elvira  and  Felipe 
would  shed  bitter  tears  and  redouble  their  caresses,  and 
the  wicked  old  man's  insinuating  voice  would  take  an 
affectionate  tone — 'Ah,  you  will  forgive  me,  will  you 
not,  dear  friends,  dear  wife  ?  I  am  rather  a  nuisance. 
Alas,  Lord  in  heaven,  how  canst  Thou  use  me  as  the 
instrument  by  which  Thou  provest  these  two  angelic 
creatures  ?  I  who  should  be  the  joy  of  their  lives  am 
become  their  scourge  .  .  .' 

In  this  manner  he  kept  them  tethered  to  his  pillow, 
blotting  out  the  memory  of  whole  months  of  fretfulness 


The  Elixir  of  Life  355 

and  unkindness  in  one  short  hour  when  he  chose  to  dis- 
play for  them  the  ever-new  treasures  of  his  pinchbeck 
tenderness  and  charm  of  manner — a  system  of  paternity 
that  yielded  him  an  infinitely  better  return  than  his  own 
father's  indulgence  had  formerly  gained.  At  length  his 
bodily  infirmities  reached  a  point  when  the  task  of  laying 
him  in  bed  became  as  difficult  as  the  navigation  of  a 
felucca  in  the  perils  of  an  intricate  channel.  Then 
came  the  day  of  his  death  ;  and  this  brilliant  sceptic, 
whose  mental  faculties  alone  had  survived  the  most 
dreadful  of  all  destructions,  found  himself  between  his 
two  special  antipathies — the  doctor  and  the  confessor. 
But  he  was  jovial  with  them.  Did  he  not  see  a  light 
gleaming  in  the  future  beyond  the  veil  ?  The  pall  that 
is  like  lead  for  other  men  was  thin  and  translucent  for 
him  ;  the  light-footed,  irresistible  delights  of  youth 
danced  beyond  it  like  shadows. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  summer  evening  that  Don  Juan 
felt  the  near  approach  of  death.  The  sky  of  Spain  was 
serene  and  cloudless  ;  the  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of 
orange-blossom  ;  the  stars  shed  clear,  pure  gleams  of 
light  ;  nature  without  seemed  to  give  the  dying  man 
assurance  of  resurrection  ;  a  dutiful  and  obedient  son  sat 
there  watching  him  with  loving  and  respectful  eyes. 
Towards  eleven  o'clock  he  desired  to  be  left  alone  with 
this  single-hearted  being. 

*  Felipe,'  said  the  father,  in  tones  so  soft  and  aifec- 
tionate  that  the  young  man  trembled,  and  tears  of  glad- 
ness came  to  his  eyes  ;  never  had  that  stern  father  spoken 
his  name  in  such  a  tone.  '  Listen,  my  son,'  the  dying 
man  went  on.  *  I  am  a  great  sinner.  All  my  life  long, 
however,  I  have  thought  of  my  death.  I  was  once  the 
friend  of  the  great  Pope  Julius  11.;  and  that  illustrious 
Pontiff,  fearing  lest  the  excessive  excitability  of  my 
senses  should  entangle  me  in  mortal  sin  between  the 
moment  of  my  death  and  the  time  of  my  anointing  with 


35^  The  Elixir  of  Life 

the  holy  oil,  gave  me  a  flask  that  contains  a  little  of  the 
holy  water  that  once  issued  from  the  rock  in  the  wilder- 
ness. I  have  kept  the  secret  of  this  squandering  of 
a  treasure  belonging  to  Holy  Church,  but  I  am  per- 
mitted to  reveal  the  mystery  in  articula  mortis  to  my  son. 
You  will  find  the  flask  in  a  drawer  in  that  Gothic  table 
that  always  stands  by  the  head  of  the  bed.  .  .  .  The 
precious  little  crystal  flask  may  be  of  use  yet  again  for 
you,  dearest  Felipe.  Will  you  swear  to  me,  by  your 
salvation,  to  carry  out  my  instructions  faithfully  ?  ' 

Felipe  looked  at  his  father,  and  Don  Juan  was  too 
deeply  learned  in  the  lore  of  the  human  countenance 
not  to  die  in  peace  with  that  look  as  his  warrant,  as  his 
own  father  had  died  in  despair  at  meeting  the  expression 
in  his  son's  eyes. 

'  You  deserved  to  have  a  better  father,*  Don  Juan 
went  on.  *  I  dare  to  confess,  my  child,  that  while  the 
reverend  Abbot  of  San-Lucar  was  administering  the 
Viaticum  I  was  thinking  of  the  incompatibility  of  the 
co-existence  of  two  powers  so  infinite  as  God  and  the 
Devil ' 

'  Oh,  father  !  ' 

*  And  I  said  to  myself,  when  Satan  makes  his  peace 
he  ought  surely  to  stipulate  for  the  pardon  of  his  fol- 
lowers, or  he  will  be  the  veriest  scoundrel.  The  thought 
haunted  me  ;  so  I  shall  go  to  hell,  my  son,  unless  you 
carry  out  my  wishes.' 

'  Oh,  quick  ;  tell  me  quickly,  father.' 

'  As  soon  as  I  have  closed  my  eyes,'  Don  Juan  went 
on,  *  and  that  may  be  in  a  few  minutes,  you  must  take 
my  body  before  it  grows  cold  and  lay  it  on  a  table  in 
this  room.  Then  put  out  the  lamp  ;  the  light  of  the 
stars  should  be  sufiicient.  Take  off  my  clothes,  reciting 
Jves  and  Paters  the  while,  raising  your  soul  to  God  in 
prayer,  and  carefully  anoint  my  lips  and  eyes  with  this 
holy  water  ;  begin  with  the  face,  and  proceed  suc- 
cessively to  my  limbs  and  the  rest  of  my  body  j  my 


The  Elixir  of  Life  357 

dear  son,  the  power  of  God  is  so  great  that  you  must  be 
astonished  at  nothing.' 

Don  Juan  felt  death  so  near,  that  he  added  in  a  terrible 
voice,  '  Be  careful  not  to  drop  the  flask.' 

Then  he  breathed  his  last  gently  in  the  arms  of  his 
son,  and  his  son's  tears  fell  fast  over  his  sardonic,  haggard 
features. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  Don  Felipe  Belvidero 
laid  his  father's  body  upon  the  table.  He  kissed  the 
sinister  brow  and  the  grey  hair  ;  then  he  put  out  the 
lamp. 

By  the  soft  moonlight  that  lit  strange  gleams  across 
the  country  without,  Felipe  could  dimly  see  his  father's 
body,  a  vague  white  thing  among  the  shadows.  The 
dutiful  son  moistened  a  linen  cloth  with  the  liquid,  and, 
absorbed  in  prayer,  he  anointed  the  revered  face.  A 
deep  silence  reigned.  Felipe  heard  faint,  indescribable 
rustlings  ;  it  was  the  breeze  in  the  tree-tops,  he  thought. 
But  when  he  had  moistened  the  right  arm,  he  felt  him- 
self caught  by  the  throat,  a  young  strong  hand  held 
him  in  a  tight  grip — it  was  his  father's  hand  !  He 
shrieked  aloud  ;  the  flask  dropped  from  his  hand  and 
broke  in  pieces.  The  liquid  evaporated  ;  the  whole 
household  hurried  into  the  room,  holding  torches  aloft. 
That  shriek  had  startled  them,  and  filled  them  with  as 
much  terror  as  if  the  Trumpet  of  the  Angel  sounding 
on  the  Last  Day  had  rung  through  earth  and  sky.  The 
room  was  full  of  people,  and  a  horror-stricken  crowd 
beheld  the  fainting  Felipe  upheld  by  the  strong  arm  of 
his  father,  who  clutched  him  by  the  throat.  They  saw 
another  thing,  an  unearthly  spectacle — Don  Juan's  face 
grown  young  and  beautiful  as  Antinous,  with  its  dark 
hair  and  brilliant  eyes  and  red  Hps,  a  head  that  made 
horrible  efforts,  but  could  not  move  the  dead,  wasted 
body. 

An  old  servitor  cried,  *  A  miracle  !  a  miracle  !  '  and  all 
the  Spaniards  echoed,  *  A  miracle  !  a  miracle  !  ' 

z  2 


358  The  Elixir  of  Life 

Dona  Elvira,  too  pious  to  attribute  this  to  magic,  sent 
for  the  Abbot  of  San-Lucar  ;  and  the  Prior  beholding  the 
miracle  with  his  own  eyes,  being  a  clever  man,  and 
withal  an  Abbot  desirous  of  augmenting  his  revenues, 
determined  to  turn  the  occasion  to  profit.  He  im- 
mediately gave  out  that  Don  Juan  would  certainly  be 
canonised  j  he  appointed  a  day  for  the  celebration  of  the 
apotheosis  in  his  convent,  which  thenceforward,  he  said, 
should  be  called  the  convent  of  San  Juan  of  Lucar.  At 
these  words  a  sufficiently  facetious  grimace  passed  over 
the  features  of  the  late  Duke. 

The  taste  of  the  Spanish  people  for  ecclesiastical 
solemnities  is  so  well  known,  that  it  should  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  the  religious  pantomime  by  which  the 
Convent  of  San-Lucar  celebrated  the  translation  of  the 
blessed  Don  yuan  Belvidero  to  the  abbey-church.  The 
tale  of  the  partial  resurrection  had  spread  so  quickly  from 
village  to  village,  that  a  day  or  two  after  the  death  of  the 
illustrious  nobleman  the  report  had  reached  every  place 
within  fifty  miles  of  San-Lucar,  and  it  was  as  good  as  a 
play  to  see  the  roads  covered  already  with  crowds  flock- 
ing in  on  all  sides,  their  curiosity  whetted  still  further  by 
the  prospect  of  a  Te  Deum  sung  by  torchlight.  The  old 
abbey-church  of  San-Lucar,  a  marvellous  building  erected 
by  the  Moors,  a  mosque  of  Allah,  which  for  three  cen- 
turies had  heard  the  name  of  Christ,  could  not  hold  the 
throng  that  poured  in  to  see  the  ceremony.  Hidalgos  in 
their  velvet  mantles,  with  their  good  swords  at  their  sides, 
swarmed  like  ants,  and  were  so  tightly  packed  in  among 
the  pillars  that  they  had  not  room  to  bend  the  knees, 
which  never  bent  save  to  God.  Charming  peasant  girls, 
in  the  basquina  that  defines  the  luxuriant  outlines  of  their 
figures,  lent  an  arm  to  white-haired  old  men.  Young 
men,  with  eyes  of  fire,  walked  beside  aged  crones  in 
holiday  array.  Then  came  couples  tremulous  with  joy, 
voung  lovers  led  thither  by  curiosity,  newly  wedded  folk  ; 
children  timidly  clasping  each  other  by  the  hand.     This 


The  Elixir  of  Life  359 

throng,  so  rich  in  colouring,  in  vivid  contrasts,  laden  with 
flowers,  enamelled  Hke  a  meadow,  sent  up  a  soft  murmur 
through  the  quiet  night.  Then  the  great  doors  of  the 
church  opened. 

Late  comers  who  remained  without  saw  afar,  through 
the  three  great  open  doorways,  a  scene  of  which  the 
theatrical  illusions  of  modern  opera  can  give  but  a  faint 
idea.  The  vast  church  was  lighted  up  by  thousands  of 
candles,  offered  by  saints  and  sinners  alike  eager  to  win 
the  favour  of  this  new  candidate  for  canonisation,  and 
these  self-commending  illuminations  turned  the  great 
building  into  an  enchanted  fairyland.  The  black  arch- 
ways, the  shafts  and  capitals,  the  recessed  chapels  with  gold 
and  silver  gleaming  in  their  depths,  the  galleries,  the  Arab 
traceries,  all  the  most  delicate  outlines  of  that  delicate 
sculpture,  burned  in  the  excess  of  light  like  the  fantastic 
figures  in  the  red  heart  of  a  brazier.  At  the  further  end 
of  the  church,  above  that  blazing  sea,  rose  the  high  altar 
like  a  splendid  dawn.  All  the  glories  of  the  golden 
lamps  and  silver  candlesticks,  of  banners  and  tassels,  of 
the  shrines  of  the  saints  and  votive  offerings,  paled  before 
the  gorgeous  brightness  of  the  reliquary  in  which  Don 
Juan  lay.  The  blasphemer's  body  sparkled  with  gems, 
and  flowers,  and  crystal,  with  diamonds  and  gold,  and 
plumes  white  as  the  wings  of  seraphim  ;  they  had  set  it 
up  on  the  altar,  where  the  picture  of  Christ  had  stood. 
All  about  him  blazed  a  host  of  tall  candles  j  the  air 
quivered  in  the  radiant  light.  The  worthy  Abbot  of  San- 
Lucar,  in  pontifical  robes,  with  his  mitre  set  with  precious 
stones,  his  rochet  and  golden  crosier,  sat  enthroned  in 
imperial  state  among  his  clergy  in  the  choir.  Rows  of 
impassive  aged  faces,  silver-haired  old  men  clad  in  fine 
linen  albs,  were  grouped  about  him,  as  the  saints  who 
confessed  Christ  on  earth  are  set  by  painters,  each  in  his 
place,  about  the  throne  of  God  in  heaven.  The  precentor 
and  the  dignitaries  of  the  chapter,  adorned  with  the 
gorgeous  insignia  of  ecclesiastical  vanity,  came  and  went 


360  The  Elixir  of  Life 

through  the  clouds  of  incense,  like  stars  upon  their 
courses  in  the  firmament. 

When  the  hour  of  triumph  arrived,  the  bells  awoke  the 
echoes  far  and  wide,  and  the  whole  vast  crowd  raised  to 
God  the  first  cry  of  praise  that  begins  the  Te  Deum.  A 
sublime  cry  !  High,  pure  notes,  the  voices  of  women  in 
ecstasy,  mingled  in  it  with  the  sterner  and  deeper  voices 
of  men  ;  thousands  of  voices  sent  up  a  volume  of  sound 
so  mighty,  that  the  straining,  groaning  organ-pipes  could 
not  dominate  that  harmony.  But  the  shrill  sound  of 
children's  singing  among  the  choristers,  the  reverberation 
of  deep  bass  notes,  awakened  gracious  associations,  visions 
of  childhood,  and  of  man  in  his  strength,  and  rose  above 
that  entrancing  harmony  of  human  voices  blended  in  one 
sentiment  of  love. 

Te  Deum  laudamus  ! 

The  chant  went  up  from  the  black  masses  of  men  and 
women  kneeling  in  the  cathedral,  like  a  sudden  breaking 
out  of  light  in  darkness,  and  the  silence  was  shattered  as  by 
a  peal  of  thunder.  The  voices  floated  up  with  the  clouds 
of  incense  that  had  begun  to  cast  thin  bluish  veils  over  the 
fanciful  marvels  of  the  architecture,  and  the  aisles  were 
filled  with  splendour  and  perfume  and  light  and  melody. 
Even  at  the  moment  when  that  music  of  love  and  thanks- 
giving soared  up  to  the  altar,  Don  Juan,  too  well  bred 
not  to  express  his  acknowledgments,  too  witty  not  to 
understand  how  to  take  a  jest,  bridled  up  in  his  reliquary, 
and  responded  with  an  appalling  burst  of  laughter.  Then 
the  Devil  having  put  him  in  mind  of  the  risk  he  was 
running  of  being  taken  for  an  ordinary  man,  a  saint,  a 
Boniface,  a  Pantaleone,  he  interrupted  the  melody  of  love 
by  a  yell;  the  thousand  voices  of  hell  joined  in  it.  Earth 
blessed.  Heaven  banned.  The  church  was  shaken  to  its 
ancient  foundations. 

Te  Deum  laudamus  !  cried  the  many  voices. 

'  Go  to  the  devil,  brute  beasts  that  you  are  !  Dm  ! 
Dios  !     Carajos  demonios  !     Idiots  !     What  fools  you  are 


The  Elixir  of  Life  361 

with  your  dotard-God  !  '  and  a  torrent  of  imprecations 
poured  forth  like  a  stream  of  red-hot  lava  from  the  mouth 
of  Vesuvius. 

*  Deus  Sabaoth  /  .  .  .  Sabaoth  !  '  cried  the  believers. 

'  You  are  insulting  the  majesty  of  Hell,'  shouted  Don 
Juan,  gnashing  his  teeth.  In  another  moment  the  living 
arm  struggled  out  of  the  reliquary,  and  was  brandished 
over  the  assembly  in  mockery  and  despair. 

*  The  saint  is  blessing  us,'  cried  the  old  women, 
children,  lovers,  and  the  credulous  among  the  crowd. 

And  note  how  often  we  are  deceived  in  the  homage 
we  pay  ;  the  great  man  scoffs  at  those  who  praise  him, 
and  pays  compliments  now  and  again  to  those  whom  he 
laughs  at  in  the  depths  of  his  heart. 

Just  as  the  Abbot,  prostrate  before  the  altar,  was  chant- 
ing *  Sancte  fohannes^  ora  pro  nobis  !  '  he  heard  a  voice 
exclaim  sufficiently  distinctly  :  '  O  coglione  !  ' 

*  What  can  be  going  on  up  there  ?  '  cried  the  Sub-prior, 
as  he  saw  the  reliquary  move. 

*  The  saint  is  playing  the  devil,'  replied  the  Abbot. 
Even  as  he  spoke,  the  living  head  tore  itself  away  from 

the  lifeless  body,  and  dropped  upon  the  sallow  cranium 
of  the  officiating  priest. 

*  Remember  Doîïa  Elvira  !  '  cried  the  thing,  with  its 
teeth  set  fast  in  the  Abbot's  head. 

The  Abbot's  horror-stricken  shriek  disturbed  the 
ceremony  ;  all  the  ecclesiastics  hurried  up  and  crowded 
about  their  chief. 

*  Idiot,  tell  us  now  if  there  is  a  God  !  '  the  voice  cried, 
as  the  Abbot,  bitten  through  the  brain,  drew  his  last 
breath. 

Paris,  Octeher  183a 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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